


The One From There

by Serenhawk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, First Time, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Teen Romance, Witch Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2019-09-25 06:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17116382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: When Dean Winchester looked into the mirror one ordinary Thursday morning, the reflection staring back tried to caution him, for it knew something he did not. But the warning that rang in his ears as he left the bathroom still couldn't prevent his young brother from being marked as prey to someone—something—ancient and parasitic.What's more, no one that can help is willing to understand how much danger Sam is in. No one except maybe the strange, solitary senior at school whose piercing blue eyes always seem to see more than they should.





	1. A Warning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of The Changeover by Margaret Mahy, one of my favorite local YA novels (now a film too).
> 
> Obviously, the setting for this is not the original 1980's New Zealand, but I've never been to Kansas so forgive me any inaccuracies in shifting the context. The age difference between Dean and Sam has roughly doubled for the purpose of the story and John Winchester, while not a terrible parent, retains some of his canon faults.
> 
> Because I like circularity, the title refers to a line from the song 'Supernatural' by likewise local New Zealand band from my youth: Midnight Youth.  [The acoustic version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nM5iR_rfbfE&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR3mDfXkkOfn2VKj89qQY85ZvqG1D_pa3zOBpQH8B3yshb7EZBelqGQd2mc) has always given me old-school SPN feels and perfectly fits this fic.  Shoutout to [BrielleSPN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrielleSPN/pseuds/BrielleSPN) for the upload.
> 
> Big thanks to my beta, shellz. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> I do not own the characters or the story. I simply love both and had to smoosh them together.

  

Like a morning storm, Dean thunderously flapped the shower curtain aside to step out of the tub and rain on the bathmat. After flicking water from his eyes, he turned to take his irritation out on the vanity, violently frisking the cupboards and drawers until he settled on something which would make him feel at least half clean. Peeling the weirdly lumpy soap from its box, he gave the bar a cursory sniff before scrunching his nose at the aromatic cocktail and flipping the packaging to peer at the back.

 

#### ... contains active marine algae extract from select seaweed that acts as a protective moisturizer.  
_MADE IN KANSAS._

 

If that wasn’t a contradiction he didn’t know what was. It could be made from rabbit piss and oregano for all he knew what seaweed or even the ocean smelled like. Still, soap was soap even if it came as an unwanted gift from their well-meaning neighbor.

Like most in their neighborhood in Lawrence, Ms. Moseley was not wealthy. “Little luxuries are good for the soul” she’d say, however, when she brought over a basket of goods every Christmas or for his and Sam’s birthdays. It wasn’t borne of pity and he didn’t mean to feel ungrateful, but sometimes Dean would have liked a new pair of jeans or something useful rather than some hipster soap from the farmer’s market. Nevertheless, he was grateful for her generosity, especially the reliable supply of second-hand books she handed over the fence. He just tried to ignore the shrewd look pooling in her rich dark eyes as he solemnly took them from her steady hands.

A terse command echoed under the door. “Dean! Ten minutes!”

“Gimme five!” he yelled, spinning back to the shower he’d left running when he’d realized there was no soap or even shampoo. Once under the hot spray, he quickly lathered his underarms and hair, noting as he put it on the cradle the dainty seahorse imprinted on the bar had already been smudged into nonexistence. Rinsing off, he wondered if he’d ever see such a creature for himself one day, or whether that was a dream only to be similarly smeared out once he left school and had to fend for himself.

Not that he could see himself leaving home either; he was needed here with Sam still so young, even though another income would make a big difference. Things weren’t easy, but their Dad made their frayed ends meet with the small auto parts business. They might not get to have family outings to the movies or new store-bought clothes, but they never went hungry. Not unless it was _that_ week.

When it came to the anniversary of their mother’s death John would disappear, in mind if not always in body. Dean had learned over the years to stock up on a few extra groceries or cash to help get them through while the firestorm raged within his father, when for days John would retreat into his head while either drinking Sam’s weight in bourbon alone in his room, or spending the previous fortnight’s earnings at any bar in the county that would let him in.

But Dean _did_ dream. Vivid surreal excursions to coasts—not just continental America, but of shining white cliffs in Greece and golden-peach sandy expanses in Australia. Or to towering, silver metropolises and then jungles thick with humidity and broad leather-like leaves. He had no idea why he dreamed of places as if he’d been there, but he didn't have to be Freud to know his thoughts of travel were consciously born of a desire to escape even though the mere idea of flying made his stomach knot. Strangely, and more than once he’d woken up tasting the dust from an African summer storm on the back of his tongue, or with his lungs heaving from the thin air of a mountaintop. Maybe, he’d wondered, it was because he spent too much stolen time traveling between the pages of one of Missouri's books.

Shutting off the faucet with a dull thud, he stepped out onto the damp bathmat a second time only to curse under his breath when the only towel on offer lay in a clammy heap on the linoleum. "Dad, there's no dry towel!" he called forlornly.

"Next time don't be last in the bathroom!" John barked back, devoid of sympathy.

The air in the room was warm but the floor held the chill of a sluggish spring, so instead of the limp pile of cotton he opted to reach for the sweatpants he’d slept in, using them to roughly pat himself dry. After scrubbing the thin fabric over his hair, he wiped the steam from the mirror, mottled black in the corners with age. The reflection left looking back at him was fractured, distorting him like one of the paintings from Lisa’s art history textbooks. She’d always seen him as a painting; an acquisition for her collection she could put on display. He wasn’t averse to being a trophy boyfriend—he’d used his looks and quasi-jock status both scrupulously and not—but he never felt like she looked past his indistinct brushstrokes, framed as they were by his circumstances. In the end, he’d given her the dignity of breaking up with him, and it had only taken two weeks of being a thorough ass to her to achieve.

“DEAN!”

“Coming!” He returned his father’s bellow and scrambled into the waiting jeans and tank, then hunched into a wrinkled plaid button-down. Casting a last glance at the mirror to pat at his hair, he caught a sudden shadow pass through the tears streaking the glass. Blinking, he looked closer and saw it again, hovering briefly in the corner before dissolving, leaving a dank foreboding at his back and chilling his blood.

He shivered even as his pulse picked up.  
  
_It was a warning_.

Dean had sensed them before. Sometimes in a whisper as if the universe massed air to his ear, pressing close with ominous breath and nebulous words. Other times it was like a distant shout echoing through time and distance to reach him, vibrating with caution and recognition. He’d felt the latter the morning over seven years ago when his mother had set off with baby Sam to see his grandparents. The morning she’d never come home again thanks to a recidivist drunk in a rusting Dodge.

He got the distinct feeling this one wasn’t something present, sending an echo forward through time. The shadow was something absent. Not form and shape but the opposite, dense with a nothingness that silently beckoned.

Then, a waft of something organic curled under his nose; honeysuckle or jasmine but stale and cloying, a too-sweet scent nearing decomposure. On high alert, Dean scanned the room behind him until his eyes were drawn back to the picture of himself—less hazy than before, but different. Something in his face had warped; the ruffled, wet hair was the same, as were the too-full lips, pink from the shower's heat. But the eyes that scanned him back knew something he couldn't, benevolent but imploring.  He couldn’t put his finger on what had altered other than knowing with visceral certainty the version of him that was looking back now, wasn’t the seventeen-year-old kid who was looking in the mirror.

His father's voice at the door interrupted his advancing dread. “Dean! I swear to God if you are doing your hair I'll come in there and shave it all off,” John growled.

Dean stepped away from the mirror, turning his back on the premonitory pall in the room and yanked at the loose door handle. “Dad, I’m not feeling great. Can I skip today?” he pleaded, knowing it was far too little and too late.

His father spun on his heels as he headed for the kitchen. “You looked fine fifteen minutes ago when you dragged your ass outta bed.”

He shuffled his feet. “Yeah, I just— I don’t think should go, ya know? I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Dean,” John said, exasperated. “It’s Thursday. You know I need you on a Thursday. There’s no one else who can pick Sam up from school today. And you haven’t come down with anything yet.”

“But, Dad— ”

“No!” John held out a warding hand, but Dean didn't know which of the two of them he was tempering. “I’m sorry Son, but that’s final. You go to school, you pick up your brother and you look after him until I get home,” his father continued, quieter, but no less firm.  “And don’t you have that test today?”

“Yes Sir,” Dean admitted, hanging his head.

“Right. So grab your stuff and let’s get a move on. C’mon, Sammy, out ya go.” He left Dean in the doorway while he herded his younger son over the threshold and out to the car.

Dean dragged his feet to the door, toed on his sneakers and then remembered to grab a soggy pop tart from the counter before throwing his pack over one shoulder. He paused at the top of the stoop, fighting the urge to slink back to his bed to forget the world existed; a world breathing the potential for ruin and misery onto his face as he looked down at the already revving car. His brother looked up at him, wide-eyed and trusting behind the glass, and he knew he had no choice but to stride into the day, forewarned or not.

“You did study for that test?” his father asked when they were halfway through town on the way to school. Dean kept his eyes focused out the window, seeing the front sign for the store his dad owned slide by before he answered.

“Yep. I borrowed some notes too, off a Senior.”

“Oh? Which one?” John continued awkwardly, picking today of all days to make a conversational effort and throwing Dean further off balance.

“Uh, Cas Novak?” he answered, like the guy’s name warranted a permanent question mark. “He tutors sometimes. For extra credit.”

“Novak. Like _the_ Novaks?”

“I guess,” Dean shrugged. He knew what his father’s note of surprise meant. The Novak family were the stuff of legend and gossip in the community. What once had been a large thriving estate on the edge of town had been swallowed by their suburb when the city grew, the descendants limited to two reclusive women who were rarely seen beyond the ivy-laced walls and imposing gates of the entire block that accommodated their allegedly majestic house. Alleged because Dean had never met anyone who’d seen inside, past the fences and overgrown wooded fortress that was the setting of a number of spooky campfire stories he’d heard as a kid.

“I didn’t even know they had a kid,” John remarked.

“Don’t think anyone did, until Cas turned up at school last year,” he explained, his memory traveling back to that day, the first after Christmas break. He’d felt a warning that day too, subtle and elusive, but had dismissed it as the too-quiet stillness after a dumping of snow.

John cast him a distrustful glance. “What’s he like? A weirdo?”

Dean frowned internally at his father’s curiosity. He never asked questions about Dean’s day to day life. “A little,” Dean agreed. “He’s quiet, well behaved—model student. Gets on with everyone, but doesn’t have any friends, or date” he described. “There’s something...off about him though,” he added, without thinking the better of it.

“Off?”

He revised more carefully with a half-truth. “I dunno—word is he got into trouble at some private school and got dragged back to Lawrence. But I’ve never seen him put a foot wrong.”

“Huh.”

Dean didn’t add that the dark-haired kid was almost too good, like it was a veneer, carefully composed. Nor did he mention that more than once he’d felt ice-blue eyes staring at him across the lunch hall, slicing through the melee of kids to hijack Dean’s attention. He definitely didn’t elaborate on how Cas would give him a certain smile when Dean was forced to seek his help with chemistry class. It was a smile like a coin, shy on one face but almost feline on the other, cryptic and furtive, and Dean was uncomfortably convinced no one else at school, student or faculty, was privy to it.

The thing he would never say out loud to anyone was that Novak wasn’t one of them. Human, yes, but not like anyone he’d ever met before. It was something in the way light refracted around him, or the time the home bell had rung during a downpour and Dean had watched him descend the steps carrying his ubiquitous camera somehow without being hit by a drop, everyone around him too concerned with not getting drenched to notice. Then there was the day Dean had been pushing Sam on the swing in the park and watched as Cas, cross-legged under a nearby tree, sat with a pair of bluebirds chattering excitedly on one knee.

Dean didn’t know what he knew. He tried to keep the observations hazy and intangible in his mind so they wouldn’t ripple into actuality, begging knotty existential questions. He just _knew._

The nose of the old impala suddenly pulled into the curb in front of his sprawling beige prison for the day. “I’ll be home ‘bout eight,” his Dad said by way of a farewell like it wasn’t the same time every Thursday after the late night at the store.

“Sure.” Dean twisted a look over his shoulder and ruffled his brother’s hair. “Later kiddo. Mac’n’cheese, or pizza?”

“Pizza!” Sam replied with a gap-toothed grin.

The passenger door creaked its unmistakable melody as he pushed it shut, marking his point of no return. The roar from the departing car was replaced by another rumble approaching, this one belonging to a sleek black motorcycle, unpretentious but chafing at its own power as it slowed and dodged the morning throng to park next to the bicycle racks by the main door. Dean began the trek towards the steps, following the bike’s path and drawing level as its now dismounted owner drew off their helmet.

The revealed blue gaze lassoed his, nearly causing him to trip on the lowest stair. “Novak,” Dean nodded, trying to cover his mistaken footfall. He paused for a moment when no response was forthcoming, ready to put it down to ‘weird kid being weird’ and carry on.

The older boy’s eyes narrowed as if Dean presented a puzzle. “Winchester,” he finally returned, pronouncing each syllable like a base note, adding “good luck, for today. You’ll need it,” as he deposited the helmet on the handlebars and ran long fingers through flattened hair.

“What?” prompted Dean, distracted for a moment at the double meaning after his encounter in the bathroom, as well as the way the dark brown tufts appeared to spike dutifully to the left with minimal assistance. A trio of freshman boys brushed past excitedly, knocking his pack off balance and he had to resist the urge to reach up and clip the ear of the perpetrator.

“The test. Sinclair’s class?” Novak added, tilting his head and waiting as if Dean was a little simple.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks, man,” he said courteously, then turned to take the steps two at a time, taking his embarrassment and trying to leave his apprehensive morning behind.

 

 

 

 


	2. An Encounter

 

 

“What about Connie Hamilton?”

“What about her?” Dean asked, throwing the soggy, brown end of a cafeteria fry back in his lunch tray. His usually avid appetite had failed to put in an appearance yet today.

“C’mon, man. Haven’t you seen the way she looks at you?” Benny teased.

A sigh stuck in Dean’s throat, exiting more like a growl. “Not interested,” he replied.

“But she’s hot, and—ya know, bendy.”

“Don’t care,” Dean insisted, not sure why his friend’s persistence was getting on his nerves. “Question is, why do _you_ care so much about my love life all’uva sudden?”

“Am I not allowed to care about my bestie’s happiness? Deano, I’m hurt,” Benny replied, feigning shock before his expression lapsed into a slanted smile. “I’m just worried about your reputation. You’re only as good as your last conquest.”

“Says the guy who’s been with the same girl since seventh grade.”

“Exactly. We’ve run outta things to talk about, which is why I need us to double date,” his friend explained in his tell-tale southern drawl, pointing an implicating finger at Dean's chest. “But in order for that to happen, you need to, like...date.”

“So, this is actually all about you now?”

Benny guiltily spread his sizeable hands. “You know me, brother.”

Dean reluctantly returned his smile before being sidetracked by the solo flight of a juice box, arcing through the air to bounce off some kid’s head at the next table to the amusement of someone behind him. This place was a jungle some days.

As he drew his eyes back, they caught on the pair of blue ones sitting across the room against the dark wall. Despite being a good forty feet away and in shadow, Dean felt the weight of their attention before they flicked down to the book resting in Novak’s hands. He wished he could call it creepy and intrusive, but the distracting fact was being the beneficiary of that lengthy glance tugged like a hook, catching his curiosity as he swam uphill through the school day.

“...after practice?”

“Uh, what?” he asked, realizing Benny had addressed him with a question and he hadn’t heard a word.

Benny raised one of his dense brows. “You’re a space cadet today,” he accused, waving a hand in front of Dean’s face in mock concern for his faculties. “I was saying, I have an extra ball practice today but do you wanna hang at mine later?”

“Sorry. Chem test next period and I’m kinda shitting myself,” he offered as a confession. “And I can’t, it’s Thursday. Babysitting night.” He looked back over his friend’s shoulder, but Novak has disappeared from the spot and scanning the route towards the door uncovered no sign of him.

Dean made a show of checking his watch then stood, his chair scraping noisily on the floor. “I— uh, I should go...hit the head before—”

“...your test?” Benny continued for him, amusement bubbling in his voice.

“Yeah. Later, man.” Dean said absently, scooping up his pack and leaving his half-finished lunch where it sat. He patted his friend on his back and made for the door unsure why he was in such a hurry, only to stop and frown when he didn’t see Novak in the long, bright hallway either.

“Fucking weirdo,” he commented under his breath, half-referring to himself.

 

 

When the final bell rang, the relief was enough that Dean bounced down the steps on his heels. The test had been kinder than he’d expected, and by the time he’d walked few blocks to Sam’s school his good mood had him partially convinced he’d imagined the unsettling portent from the morning.

His brother bounded over when he saw him, wrapping thin arms around Dean’s neck as he bent down. “Hey kiddo,” he said warmly, nosing into the child’s mousey brown hair and taking a deep inhale of love. “What did ya learn today?”

“Nothin’,” Sam replied, pulling away and scowling like it was the lamest question ever despite Dean asking it nearly every day. He tugged his favorite toy—a stuffed dog with limp limbs, half bald with from nearly eight years of accompanying a child everywhere—from where it was stashed in the side pocket of his backpack for the day, out of sight of his peers, and tucked it under his arm. “Except maybe Artie Ketch is a giant douchebag,” the boy qualified, eyes suddenly downcast.

Dean looked him over sharply. “Did he hurt you? Need me to kick his ass?” he asked, though he couldn’t see any physical evidence Sam had been hassled.

“Naw. He wasn’t a douche to _me_.”

“Okay,” Dean answered, hesitantly leaving it there. It wouldn’t be the first time Sam came home worried about one of his classmates being picked on. The kid had a strong sense of justice. “Can you do me a favor and don’t use that word ‘round Dad?” he added, standing up and slinging Sam’s bag over his shoulder to join his own. Then he held out his hand, ready for the small one to curl around his palm. “Let’s go.”

They caught the same bus for the short journey downtown they did every day, bar Tuesday when Dean had Track and his dad left the shop in the care of his part-timer long enough to pick Sam up from school. First stop was always the library, a bold modern building far more grand and revolutionary than Lawrence deserved, but the easiest place to spend the hour or two until their father could pick them up once he’d closed the shop. Thursday was late night, and the evening hours John always worked alone meant that Dean had to take Sam all the way home on the bus, feed him and put him to bed.

His dad was supposed to be working on a car for him to make things a little easier. It was an old junker John had picked up and was slowly repairing out the back of the shop, which Dean knew was a labor of love for the man. “No son of mine is gonna ride around in some modern piece of shit,” he’d say, but honestly Dean would take any old beater right now if it meant having independent wheels. John had promised it by summer, so he knew it was only a couple more months of legging it everywhere or relying on friends.

Sam was happy to browse the library shelves and sit reading in a beanbag while Dean studied for an hour in the warm, bright building. Being the nerd he was when it came time to leave Sam wanted to take home a small stack of books, but there was a queue and Dean kicked himself for not bringing their card to avoid it at the self-check. However, the librarian at the counter issued their handful of paperbacks and passed them back to Sam with an approving grin that made it worth the wait. “Such an impressive reader, young man. Are you too old for a stamp?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

His brother, having an intimate knowledge of the array of colorful stamps nestled in the draw, solemnly nodded. “Tiger please,” he asked in a clear voice.

“Good choice,” she advised as she rolled the stamp onto the back of his outstretched hand. Sam held it up to look at it closely, flexing his fist as the image twisted on his skin.

“Whaddya say, buddy?” Dean murmured, leaning to his brother's ear.

“Thank you, ma'am,” Sam replied as he gathered up his spoils.

Dean draped an arm over the child’s shoulders and turned him towards the door, throwing a warm smile over his shoulder to the woman behind the desk. A glance at his watch revealed they'd just missed the bus they needed, meaning a twenty-five minute wait until the next one which could take them close enough to home. “How about a popsicle?” he proposed, eager to not spend the time standing on the street in the growing chill.

“Yes!“ Sam skipped his enthusiasm, his backpack bouncing on his back.

“Okay, but you decide what flavor before we get there,” Dean ordered, knowing the kid could stand in front of the chiller for an eternity while carefully considering his options. He paused to take the books, shoving them in the bag and casting it over his own shoulder again before leading Sam up to the corner. They waited at the crosswalk, Sam nestling his small hand in Dean’s as the growing traffic growled past, the town’s inhabitants beginning to make their way to whatever lives they led behind closed doors.

Once across the street, Sam ran ahead, enthusiastically making for the convenience store only to pull to a halt a couple of storefronts short. When Dean caught up to him he saw what caught his attention; a small, recessed shop window full of vintage (and just plain old) toys: grotesque bobble-headed dolls, a worn but sharp-eyed teddy bear, and steel trucks like the one currently rusting in their backyard.

The store looked like it had been there since Nixon, but Dean’s brain grappled with being unable to find any memory of it despite treading this pavement every week. _Morningstar Books & Collectibles_ read the crescent sign above the flaking green sill, the adjacent peeling door sitting slightly ajar.

Sam pulled at his sleeve. “You wanna go in?” Dean asked skeptically, receiving another tug. “Five minutes, okay?” and Sam nodded.

The noisy street was shut out once they stepped inside, the door swinging closed behind them. Adjusting to the abrupt absence of sound and sunlight, Dean's nose wrinkled at the crowded and musty interior. Walls brimming to the ceiling with shelves full of muted spines of old and older books surrounded them, while the floor was taken up with cabinets containing a further selection of children’s playthings along with a smattering of silverware and gilt-edged china. The far end where the counter squatted was darker still and appeared to be unoccupied.

“C’mon, Sammy. I don’t think anyone’s here. Let’s go,” he urged, feeling stifled in the stale and dust-ridden air. But then a door somewhere to the rear of the shop was pulled open and they weren't alone anymore, a man purposely striding through to greet them.

“Well, hello there. You must be my lucky last customers of the day!” he said in a booming voice. “I was just debating whether to give up. These late nights never amount to much, you know,” he added, finally coming to a halt a few feet away. Though he was a little shorter than Dean, his broad shoulders filled the timeworn three-piece suit he wore, an unremarkable bark-brown color but crisply pressed. A bright white shirt gleamed in the gloom at the cuffs and collar, matching shoes that shone. The man inside them though was dull, despite his demeanor. His skin looked papery and pitted, brown age spots speckling his lined jowls and hands. The sparse, brindle hair on his head was clipped short and the teeth behind his greasy smile resembled aged porcelain. Only his eyes were still vivid, the light hazel irises shining with a private excitement. The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck lifted with a feeling of _wrong-wrong-wrong!_

“Uh, sorry, we’re just going. Our bus is due,” he fibbed, reaching for Sam’s sleeve.

“Oh, come now, you’ve barely looked around! I’m sure there’s something to catch your eye. So many books containing magic and mystery, waiting for a forever home!” he said, gesturing grandly at the wall as his focus settled on Sam. “And what about you, young man? Such a pleasant child—how do you do! What’s your name? I bet it’s a fine one. A solid, dependable name, I’m sure.”

Bending slightly he held out a hand, expectant fingers littered with a number of unusual, gaudy-looking rings. Sam gave Dean a timid glance before lifting his own. “Samuel, Sir,” he supplied.

“Samuel. I knew it! A good, durable name,” the man purred. It was then Dean smelled it, the sickly-sweet stench too much like the one he’d sensed in the bathroom that morning, and the room seemed to fold and collapse around him as a wave of fear broke along his spine that shrieked  _t_ _his is it_.

“Sam, let’s go,” he said urgently, reaching again for the child to pull him from whatever his senses were desperately trying to warn him about. But the man ignored him, plunging on with his cheerful tirade.

“Azazel is _my_ name,” he responded, as if he was bestowing a great privilege. “I bet you haven’t heard that one before! And what’s this on your little paw?” he asked, turning Sam’s hand over to look at the back. “A tiger! How charming! And what’s hiding on your other hand?”

“Sam,” Dean warned, or thought he did - he couldn’t be sure he’d made a sound. But Sam raised his other arm on command to show the blank skin, the man painting a shocked expression over his garish features.

“Nothing! Oh, this hand must be lonely. As it happens, I have a stamp right here! Would you like one to match? Much better to have a matching pair, don’t you think?”

“Sam!” Dean rasped again, feeling mute and powerless as Sam nodded while the man foraged in his left pocket and lifted a small device above his brother’s hand. Time slowed, but Dean still wasn’t quick enough.

“Hold it up Samuel, so I can see,” he ordered with a slick grin, lips peeling over his teeth. “There!” he exclaimed, pouncing on Sam’s hand and leaving a black impression, though of what Dean couldn’t make out as panic tightened his chest.

Sam frowned, reclaiming his hand like it had been stung. “C’mon Sammy,” Dean repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, finally drawing the child away.

“Come again! It was a pleasure!” the proprietor said as Dean hurried them to the door. They all but tumbled out of the shop, the latch bolted and blind pulled down the window behind them with almost comic haste, like they’d served a purpose and been tossed out despite leaving of their own volition.

Dean panted lightly, out of breath as if he’d just jogged a lap of the school track. “Lemme see,” he said, kneeling and grabbing gently at Sam’s forearm. The image still glistening on his brother’s hand was grotesque, not unlike the faces on some of the figures in the now obscured window. “That’s...inappropriate,” he remarked, struggling for a response before the horror dawned that the face on Sam’s hand was a caricature of the store's owner himself. “Gross,” he whispered under his breath, rubbing a thumb over that black lines. But they refused to smudge despite still looking wet.

He looked at Sam’s clouded face. “I’m sorry, Sammy. What a...douchebag,” he said, trying for a consoling tone. The last thing he wanted to do was to alarm the kid too. “Let’s forget about it and go get that popsicle, yeah? Then we can go home and wash that off.” Sam nodded, muted and withdrawn, and Dean pushed down another surge of dread.

They made for the 7-Eleven, Dean joining his brother in getting a treat, mainly to take away the smell still lingering at the back of his throat from the tiny shop and the revulsion that accompanied it. Sam remained quiet on the ride home, dragging his heels at every opportunity, and Dean had to try hard not to become frustrated by him, eager as he was to get them both home and to relative safety. Night was settling around their small, blue house when he finally opened the front door and secured it behind them.

He made straight for the kitchen, turning on the oven and shunting in a pizza from the freezer straight away, not caring that it was a sure way to burn what had to pass as their dinner. Then he strode into the bathroom and rinsed a washcloth, emerging to find Sam curled up in a forlorn heap on the couch. “Let’s see if we can get this off, okay bud?” he suggested gently.

Sam held out his hand and Dean rubbed, taking another excursion for soap and a warmer rinse when his effort seemed to make no difference to the picture still brightly embedded in the smooth pores. After a few minutes, he gave up, the mark only slightly dulled despite the skin around it pinking from his attempts. He sat back on his heels and considered his brother, looking smaller than his nearly eight years.

 _I failed_ , he admonished himself.  _I had a warning and I still screwed up,_  knowing with a cold certainty it would take more than soap and water to remove the mark from his little brother’s hand.

 

 


	3. A Party

 

 

Dean didn’t mention the ghastly little shop when his father arrived home, having decided he wouldn’t bring up anything about the incident at all unless it proved unavoidable.

Once the pizza had heated he’d managed to get Sam to eat a little, but had let him skip a bath in favor of putting the weary boy into bed early and sorting the laundry still sitting in the basket from Tuesday. Lastly, Dean had decided to steal a second shower for the day, his skin itching to be scrubbed clean after the encounter of several hours before.

Hair still damp, Dean had just pulled on his sweats when he heard John walk in the door. Typically, his father didn’t say much apart from asking how Sam had gone down, Dean simply mumbling “Okay, I guess,” before collecting the remote and collapsing on the couch, where he was joined a few minutes later.

“You made it through the day, I see,” John observed around a mouthful of tepid pizza, startling Dean into a flashback to the split second he'd been unable to prevent Sam's hand being marked. Then he realized his father meant Dean’s morning protest.

“Yeah,” Dean admitted, adding “turned out to be nothing,” the words echoing eerily in his head, like hope often does. John merely grunted and turned his attention to the television, where they both watched a laughably bad G.I.Joe movie in mutual silence.

 

The next morning Sam was up and about early, as was usual. Other than being a little subdued, he appeared to be his normal, happy-go-lucky self. So much so, that when Dean wandered—puffy-eyed and yawning—into the kitchen and studied his brother eating cheerios at the chipped table, he had to do a double take.

Sam greeted him with the kind of barrage of chatter only a kid can, explaining some theory about interplanetary travel he must have seen on TV that morning before Dean got a word in edgeways. What’s more, there was no sign of the stamp he’d gone to bed with on the back of his left hand, leaving Dean to again let himself hope he’d overreacted to the whole shitshow. The morning felt plain and simple just like any other morning, with no portents or raised hackles, or hideous tattoo-like images, and when he was dropped at the school gate Sam gave him the grin he was entrusted with every morning as they said goodbye.

Dean watched the black car prowl down the street before turning to face the school, eager to get the day over with so he could greet the weekend. Drawing to the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated long enough to acknowledge Cas for the second morning in a row where he lolled, draped half on his bike and looking as if he was expecting something—or someone.

“Novak,” he said with a dry nod, squinting into the bright morning.

“Winchester.” Dean’s greeting was mimicked in return. “How was the test?”

“Uh, okay, I guess? Think I scraped through. Thanks for the notes.”

“Not a problem, Let me know if you want ones for Trig,” Cas offered warmly before canting his head and pinning Dean with a feline stare.

Dean rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, feeling studied. “Might do. I’ll let you know next week,” he said, turning to take the steps two at a time without a farewell.

He didn’t see Novak for the rest of the day, the afternoon slowing painfully as fatigue from tossing and turning all night set in. The shrill sound of the home bell was seldom as melodious as when it finally rang in his ears.

“Pick you up at eight?” Benny said, leaning on the locker next to Dean’s as he decided which books he’d need for the weekend.

“Eight?” he repeated dumbly, rummaging in the back of the metal cupboard for the notebook he empirically knew was there.

“The _party_ , dopey.”

“Oh,” he said when his brain caught up, “yeah, ‘course. Thanks, man.” The senior party (along with a few privileged juniors, of which he was one) had been on their radar for weeks but had entirely slipped Dean’s mind. “You got anything?” he asked, miming slamming back a drink

“Just a bottle of Jack. If the old man misses it, he hasn’t said.”

Dean huffed a wry sound. If there was alcohol in his house it never sat around long enough to be misappropriated. “Awesome. Catch ya later, then.” He slapped a palm to his friend’s shoulder as he brushed past in a hurry to collect Sam from school.

Sam fell on him for a hug when Dean reached him, wrapping arms around first Dean’s thighs then his neck as he bent down. “You okay there?” Dean asked, unease worming its way in again, for the first time that day.

“Jus’ tired,” his brother volunteered.

Dean stood, taking Sam’s backpack in the process. “Long week huh. Off to the library?”

Sam vigorously shook his head, thick hair playing about his ears. “No!”

Dean frowned at the emphatic response; they went to the library most days after school as it was one of Sam’s favorite places. “Okay then. Park instead?”

The boy seemed happier with that choice, so he walked them the few blocks to the park where there was a decent playground. The afternoon was a bathed in crisp, spring sunshine that at last breathed promises of summer and Dean found himself stripping down to his tee for the first time in months.

After an hour or so of first swing duty followed by Sam clambering over the equipment, Dean was wishing he’d made an exception and brought a book in his backpack. Reading was something private he indulged in by himself, only at home, but his phone battery was nearly dead and he was left contemplating his navel, something which seldom brought him peace. Finally, Sam’s interest seemed to wane so he led them back to the main road and turned for their Dad’s store. The route took them near the library before they dog-legged the remaining blocks to the shop, and Dean couldn’t help but glance across the road to where Azazel’s smeared window sat nestled in between the shinier ones around it. The urge to march across the intersection and bang on the closed door to demand some kind of answer or apology warred with the one to get away as fast and far as possible, punctuated by the rigid clutch Sam’s hand made to his own. Oddly, it appeared conspicuously shut up despite the street busy with pedestrians.

Another half mile and they made it to the family store where John bustled in the back, flattening boxes after restocking the shelves. “Hi, boys,” he said, greeting them with a lopsided grin. “How’ve we been today?”

Dean didn't reply, feeling weary, but Sam sidled up to him and proceeded to give him a rundown of the day’s events while John balanced the till and locked the banking away.

“Friday takeout? Tacos?” John suggested as the three of them folded into the impala.

“Sure,” Dean shrugged.

Once home, food consumed, Dean took the chance to disappear to his room. The prospect of shedding all responsibility and getting out of the house alone couldn’t arrive fast enough, but lying down on his bed with his headphones plugged into his phone while it charged, the week fell away as he let the guitar harmonies of old rock ballads dissolve his thoughts. Reminding himself with fifteen minutes to spare he needed to put in some effort for the evening, a short, hot shower and change of clothes later, he issued a quick ruffle to Sam’s crown and muttered appeasing instructions to his father about being careful before he was out the door the loiter in the dusk on the driveway.

Benny arrived on cue, riding shotgun to his girlfriend behind the wheel of the tiny hatchback. Dean slouched into the back seat, arranging his knees as best he could so they weren’t up under his chin. “Andie’s driving,” his friend said, passing a full sloshing bottle over the seatback as Andrea turned out of their short cul de sac.

“I noticed, genius” Dean deadpanned, taking the bourbon and a hurried swig. Suddenly, getting drunk seemed like an excellent idea even though the alcohol burned all the way down.

“I mean, she’s offered to drive home. So you and I, my friend, can get shitfaced.”

“Yeah-yeah, I got it,” Dean teased, grateful nonetheless that he and Benny could blow off some steam together. “Thanks, Andie,” he added, leaning across to press his lips briefly to her hair. Despite the years she and Benny had been together, they’d always managed to share him without any drama or jealousy.

“Just don’t puke in my mom’s car and we’re all square,” she advised, pretending to scowl via the rearview mirror.

The party was a short drive to the outskirts of town, at a property not country enough to be considered rural but too large to be urban, and devoid of adults. Kids were already spilling over the low fence at the back and into the field next door as the music punched into the deepening twilight, only the thinnest band of blue visible on the horizon. Dean hung out with Benny for a while before they drifted apart, Benny taking the now half-empty bottle of bourbon with him while Dean found himself sitting by the pool with some of the other kids on the track team. The conversation died as they watched one of the school neanderthals scale a trellis to make it to the roof, then attempt the make the ten-foot leap to the neighboring garage. “This will end well,” Dean remarked, patiently sipping a plastic cup of lukewarm beer he’d been handed during his trek through the house. The guy made the jump but only barely, feet scrambling against the wall for traction to the uproarious cheers and jeers of the audience.

Dean pulled a dismissive face and decided to find the kitchen, not so drunk that he couldn’t tell that mixing the cheap beer with straight bourbon would potentially end disastrously, and intending to swap it out for some water before locating Benny and the friendly bottle again. He pushed through the dancing throng in the living room, his friend finding him first as he neared the front door, and looking soberer than he wanted to be.

“We hafta go,” Benny said loudly, near his ear.

“What?” Dean frowned. “Why?”

His friend took a breath to speak but then stopped, pulling Dean out onto the porch and comparative quiet instead. “We gotta split,” he continued. “Katie’s real sick and Connor’s taken off somewhere, so Andie’s offered to drive her home.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He’d have a little more compassion if Andrea’s best friend wasn’t always the first to drink until she was falling down, and her boyfriend wasn’t a narcissistic bag of dicks she wouldn’t dump like yesterday’s trash. “Can’t she just lie down for a while?” he argued, unsympathetically.

“Nah. Andie thinks it’s food poisoning. Just bad timing—she’s hardly had anything.” Dean grimaced, feeling only slightly bad for making assumptions. He was pleasantly drunk, and he’d drank to not feel guilty about anything if he could at all help it. “You can come with, or stay and bum a ride. Your choice.” Dean twisted his lips, contemplating. “Maybe you can find someone to take you home. I saw Connie a minute ago,” Benny added with a wink.

Dean crossed his arms and scowled. “How many times, Ben? _Not_ interested.”

“‘Kay, well—”

“‘It’s alright,” he interrupted, the decision already made. “I’ll stay.”

“Sorry, man,” Benny said, looking downcast to be leaving. “Here.” He thrust the remains of the bottle of bourbon at Dean’s chest with a fixed smile and turned, disappearing into the dark. Dean hugged the bottle for a moment, then fought his way back through the house, getting waylaid to talk a couple of times before finding some friends by the pool, which was now teeming with kids in various states of undress despite the temperature hardly being tropical.

Someone in the group had dug up some weed, a generous joint already making the rounds when Dean arrived. One long toke was enough to take the edge off the disquiet that was creeping back under his skin as the initial rush of alcohol began to dissipate, a situation he remedied by chasing it with more from the bottle in his hands.

The conversation was ripe and the atmosphere rowdy, but he felt more and more as the evening wore on that he was confined to the periphery and the joking, garrulous face he was putting on was just an act. His heart just wasn’t in it, and the more he drank the more disappointingly sober he felt, though his stomach begged to differ.

Suddenly feeling ill, he lurched out of the deckchair and skirted the pool, heading for the garden, trying to steady his breath and mutinous gut. A few minutes away from the noise, however, and his balance began to restore. Nausea receded to a heavy-limbed sway accompanied by the tiny drumbeat in the rear of his skull heralding a headache in his near future, enough Dean felt confident enough to straighten from the fence he’d lent over, fearing he’d vomit. Gradually, he registered a figure ambling toward him through the long shadows broken by occasional pale pools of light from the large house.

The face that pulled into focus was the last Dean expected to see and he couldn’t summon a greeting as its owner stopped and leaned a hip on the fencepost only two feet away, with little trace of the gawky stiffness that often accompanied his movements. Castiel Novak crossed his arms and tucked one nonchalant ankle over the other, his dark hair and darker attire blurring him into the night so that only the moon of his face showed. Light gathered on the planes of his cheeks and fell towards his cleft chin as his eyes, shimmering like dusk across a lake, appraised Dean from under playful brows. He seemed dangerous, but not in any way that Dean felt scared.

“I’ve been trying to decide if you needed assistance, or you just wanted some time out,” Novak asked mildly.

Dean leaned his forearms on the top rail again. Looking down into the long grass and away from disruptive presence all too close to him. “Bit of both, I guess,” he answered truthfully. “I just...needed a moment.”

“I know the feeling,” his companion continued, the tone less assured now. “I heard there was a stomach flu going around and you looked tired earlier, so I—”

“What are you, my Mom?” Dean interrupted, abruptly irritated without knowing why.

Novak lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender and looked away from Dean’s glare, barely concealing an eye-roll.

“Sorry. I didn’t sleep, uh, last night,” Dean blurted, his tongue forming around words he had no intention of saying. “I— I had this weird experience yesterday, and—” Dean stemmed the flow, and Novak’s eyes drifted back, charged with curiosity.

“And? You okay, Winchester?”

 _Am I?_ Dean wondered. He felt okay, apart from the obvious. But ever since he’d left his brother at home, colors looked wrong; washed-out and mottled at the edges like the aged bathroom mirror. It wasn’t anything he’d consciously acknowledged until Cas addressed him with the question.

“It’s my brother. I’m worried about him,” he said freely, and took an even breath. Somehow it made him feel better as soon as he said it aloud. “Something happened to him. But I don’t know what. _Yet._ ”

Novak balled his fists into the pockets of the leather jacket hugging his frame. “Something—?” he prompted, abruptly looking at Dean two parts bored, one part intense audit of his features.

The change made Dean blink, but he rambled on. “There was this old guy, and—” he paused, rubbing the back of his neck where it suddenly itched. “Do you ever just have a feeling that something bad—” Pulling himself straight he cut off, somewhat bitterly. “Ya know, nevermind. Dunno why I’m talking to you ‘bout it.”

A small smile, however, ticked up one corner of Novak’s mouth. “Nor do I, but if you’re wanting to talk about _feelings_ ,” he began, using air quotes so ample they verged on comical, “I’m the wrong choice.”

Dean stared, unable to tell if it was an admission or warning. “Fuck you,” he issued reflexively, though it was through a traitorous smile of his own. The other boy’s grin deepened as his eyes fell to the ground, toeing at the grass as the silence began to stretch. “What are you doing here anyway?” Dean asked. “Didn't pick you as the social type.”

Novak’s face pulled sideways in a slight sulk. “Hence why I'm lurking out here with you. There's only so much I'm willing to do to appear…normal.”

Dean chewed his bottom lip and waited as his companion’s wry smile dropped away and they were both left in a hush occupied by the solidarity of mutual confessions, of sorts. “I’m not lurking,” he objected, mostly to fill the lull. “That’s all you.”

“Fair,” Novak replied with a lopsided shrug, then turned to face the field beyond the fence, mirroring Dean’s pose.

The music filtering from the house abruptly changed from an old anthem to something with a pulsing base that set Dean’s teeth on edge and drew the dull thud in his head to the surface. Somewhere behind them hostile voices climbed in the prelude to a fight. “I think it’s time I got outta here,” he remarked, then remembered through the fog in his brain he had to find a lift home. “Shit,” he sighed, despondently tipping his head back.

“Need a ride?” Novak hesitantly asked, fidgeting with the zipper at one cuff. The instinctive dismissal on Dean’s tongue died as he paused to consider his options.

“Uh, sure,” he said instead and watched with interest as Novak’s expression flickered with alarm before it carefully neutralized.

Dean followed as they turned and flanked the house, eventually finding Novak’s motorcycle parked in the jumble of cars on the side of the drive. “Here,” the boy said, offering his helmet.

“Uh, what ‘bout you?”

“Better that you have it. I’m indestructible,” Novak replied with a curiously stratified smirk, equally cocky and self-mocking, as he zipped his jacket. It made Dean’s sluggish brain want to take a beat to ponder it, but he wasn’t afforded the chance. “Ever been on a bike?”

“Yeah, coupla times.” He slipped the helmet on and fumbled with the catch, while the vehicle’s owner straddled the seat and kicked the stand.

Swallowing an influx of nerves Dean climbed on behind, acutely aware of the warmth of Novak’s back and his thighs cradling the other boy’s hips. “Move with me, and hold on tight,” Novak said lowly over his shoulder. Dean leaned in as the engine burst into life, settling on a firm grip of the driver’s jacket below his ribs. He tucked in his feet as Novak tested the throttle, and then they were moving through the night, weaving down the driveway and onto the long wide street with a burst of speed.

Closing his eyes, Dean concentrated on vibrations of the bike underneath and the contrast between the heat molded against his chest and the wind whipping through his denim jacket to circle his back. The cool blast during the journey helped to sober him, so by the time they pulled onto the curb outside his house he felt no more than bone-tired, his limbs strangely relaxed and pliant as he untangled them from the machine and its owner.

Dean sat straight and removed the helmet, handing it to the other boy as he disembarked. He scrubbed at his hair where he was sure it had been flattened. “Thanks, I guess. I’ll see you ‘round.” Novak just nodded in reply, not giving him anything and Dean wondered what they both waited for.

After a few beats, he spun and ambled towards the stoop. “Hey, Winchester,” Novak called just as he reached the top. He turned to look back, the boy casually leaning on the handlebars. “Hope your brother’s okay.” Dean lifted his chin in acknowledgment, worry skittering back into his chest, then turned to let himself in the front door. It wasn’t until he’d poured himself a drink of water in the darkened kitchen that he wondered how Castiel Novak had known where he lived.

 

 

 


	4. Sam's Smile

 

Dean emerged from the blissful Saturday morning seclusion of his bedroom to the sun streaming in the living room window. Though it brought the faded blue wallpaper to life, Sam looked tiny and wan in the saturated colors of the living room, slouched in the shadow cast by their father, whose patience was wearing as thin as the knees of Sam’s pajamas.

“Sammy, I mean it. You need to get dressed _now_ or no TV for the rest of the weekend,” John demanded, the laces of the soccer shoes he held in one hand swinging wildly as he gestured.

Dragging himself from the couch, Dean watched his brother passed through the door into his room like his feet were each ten pounds heavier.

“Sam okay?”

John rolled his eyes. “Kid had nightmares. All night. Kept crying about wolves. Neither of us got any sleep. Didn’t wake you up?” his father asked, accusation and disbelief vying in his tone. Dean shook his head, surprised himself. He wasn’t normally a heavy sleeper, but the alcohol combined with the lack of rest the night before must have meant he was out to it. “Lucky for some, I guess. You comin’ to this game?”

Dean nurtured a flash of guilt, knowing his father made the effort to organize Saturday mornings out of the store when Sam had a soccer game but a trip to the sidelines today was the last thing he was in the mood for. “I have a term paper due, so I need to hit the books all weekend,” he fudged. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He did have a midterm due at the end of the week, but he’d already completed the heavy lifting for it.

“Alright,” John nodded, to Dean's relief. “Sammy!”

Sam plodded back into the living room, dressed in his bright green uniform but still lacking in enthusiasm as he perched on edge of their only armchair. John knelt and tied his shoes for him, either out of pity or expediency, then hurried him towards the front door with a hand between his shoulder blades. “Oh Dean, can you put the laundry on?” he threw over his shoulder, shutting Dean inside without waiting for an answer.

Suddenly, the cartoons blaring from the television seemed to take up the whole room, Dean unsure if it was just him or the walls of the house which took a deep breath when he killed the power and silence settled. Time by himself was rare, and while more than a few hours with nothing to do made him itch, having nowhere to be and no one to be with was space he occasionally needed to let his thoughts find their rightful place.

Laundry assembled and given over to the washer, Dean basked in a long shower to try breaking his mind free from persistent sleep fog, then scrambled some eggs for breakfast to slake his cavernous stomach. However, the rest of the morning frittered away, Dean finding he couldn’t settle. When he opened one of the books on his bedside pile the words swam on the page refusing to slip into absorbable order. He listened to music but couldn’t find a song that didn’t grate against his mood. Finally, he gave up and puttered around tidying up the house in an effort to shake the feeling he should be doing something else; something that waited, impatient and immovable.

John and Sam eventually arrived home, invading the quiet, but this time Dean welcomed it. “Hey, bud, how’d ya play?” Dean asked as his brother melted onto the couch.

John answered for him. ‘You’ve had better games haven’t you son,” he said, casting Sam a sideways look of sympathy. “Think he might be comin’ down with something,” he added to Dean, “he’s not himself today. Didn’t even want his shake afterward.”

Dean took a long look at his brother, worry tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Sam still looked pale, making the faint circles under his eyes stand out under his mop of sweat-dried hair. Kneeling down, Dean laid fingers across his forehead but Sam didn’t feel warm at all—the opposite, in fact. “How ‘bout I make you a hot chocolate, buddy?” he soothed, Sam giving a faint nod in reply.

Handing Sam the remote to the television, Dean went to the kitchen and made the drink, returning with it as well as a blanket and Sam’s “Wroof”, tucking the limp toy under Sam’s equally listless arm as he sank further into the upholstery. “Don’t worry Sammy, we’ll get you better soon,” he said, taking a seat next to him and turning his attention to the TV.

The rest of the day continued much the same, John and Dean both taking time out to do work; John slaving over the accounts for the store and Dean cleaning up the term paper he’d told his Dad he had to work on. They all hit the sack early that night, Sam showing no signs of improvement and putting up no resistance to going to bed right after dinner.

Their night was far less peaceful and mundane. Nightmares again plagued Sam, starting around midnight with a forlorn cry that melted Dean’s heart even before he’d even had a chance to wake up. Going into Sam’s room, he politely chased his bone-weary looking father out by suggesting it was his turn to get a decent night's sleep, then sank down under the covers and pulled his little brother against his chest. The kid shuddered with fright, or maybe reprieve as Dean murmured consoling words into his hair before they both calmed and drifted off.

Sam woke several more times but each waking seemed a little less fraught until finally, about four, they sank into a restful sleep. Dean’s doze was shattered, however, when his nose tickled with an odd scent, so out of place with the sunny, corner bedroom and the boy who resided in it, normally so full of life and possibility and affection. It was the scent he’d smelled in the bathroom, three mornings ago, and then again later as it wafted around the owner of the macabre shop as he’d zeroed in on Sam.

It was the scent of decadence—and decay.

Dean’s eyes burst open. Immediately, he wished he could close them again because what he saw caused every cell in his body to scream in alarm. Sam was awake, at least he appeared to be, his hazel eyes glistening with tears and terror at they focused on Dean. But the rest of his face was twisted in a gross distortion of a smile, one which he recognized instantly from his own nightmares. He was looking at Azazel’s smile on his little brother’s face.

Flinging himself out of the bed, Dean backed up against the wardrobe as his heart hammered in his chest and his stomach roiled. Fighting the urge to vomit, he sank to his knees as panic spread from his brain and took over his motor functions, the room vibrating into formless shapes around him.

Concentrating on the swirled pattern in the carpet, little by little he came back to himself until he could take a breath without feeling like his insides all wanted to be on his outside. It may have only been seconds but had felt like time had been suspended, just for him; just long enough that his mind could wrap around what he knew.

Finally, Dean risked a look up and over the edge of the bed to see Sam’s limp form, one knee bent with a slender arm falling across his chest. _Recovery position,_ Dean’s memory informed him, immediately checking off an itemized list from a first aid class he’d been required to take: _Danger, Response, Send for help…_

It was then that Sam mumbled his name.

“Dean,” he said, voice thin and reedy. The dreadful expression had receded leaving Sam’s face his and his alone but streaked wet with silently shed tears.

Rebooted into response mode, Dean scrambled to the bed and reached to take the hand outstretched on the cream flannelette sheet. “I’m here, Sammy. I’m here.” He squeezed, gently as if his brother might disintegrate then and there.

“Dean,” Sam said again clasping Dean’s hand back. “Don’t like it.”

Dean noisily swallowed his fear. “Don’t like what, buddy?”

“The bad wolf.”

“Bad wolf?”

“He has wings and horns. His claws hurt me, and Wroof. We don’t like it” He looked around to find his stuffed dog pushed half under the pillow and cuddled him tight.

The blood in Dean’s veins threatened to turn to ice again, but he looked his little brother in the face and lied. “It’s just a dream, Sammy, okay? You had a bad dream. A horrible dream.” Sam blinked, his forehead creasing in confusion. “But you know what?" he added emphatically, for his own as much as Sam's sake, "I’m gonna go get that wolf, so he can’t get in your dreams again. I’ll keep you and Wroof safe.”

Sam kept looking at him, the trust in his gaze only cementing Dean’s conviction. “Okay?” he reiterated.

“Okay,” Sam nodded, sighing a deep breath before his eyelids sank shut.

Dean watched him for a few more seconds—or hours, he couldn’t tell—then pulled the covers over his brother’s shoulders and went out into the living area to find his father loitering in front of the coffee machine in the kitchen. “How’s the kid?” John asked as soon as he caught Dean out of the corner of his eye.

For the second time, before he’d even started the day, Dean lied. “Okay, I guess? He’s definitely come down with something. Might have to keep him wrapped up and warm today.”

John grunted, apparently mollified, then handed Dean a steaming mug before picking up his own and cradling it between his hands. They both drank in grateful silence while the weight in Dean's chest strengthened his resolve. First stop was going to be his old laptop.

His father interrupted his thoughts. “I’ll go check on him,” he said, to Dean’s annoyance.

“He’s just gone to sleep again, Dad!”

“I won’t wake him, I just wanna see.”

Half a minute later, John strode out to appear anxiously around the corner of the counter. “Was he like this when you left him?”

“Like what?”

“Cold, and he doesn’t want to wake up.”

“Dad—” Dean began to protest, but his father’s eyes were tight.

“Come see,” John commanded.

Dean followed his father back to Sam’s room and watch as John gently tried to shake Sam awake. Sam moaned, eyelids fluttering open for a few moments before sleep reclaimed him again, and John turned to look determinedly at Dean. “I think we better take him to the doctor. Maybe he’s just exhausted, but it’s worth getting him checked out,” John said, worry etched in the lines in his face, despite trying to talk himself out of it. “Get dressed, son, and I’ll wrap Sam up and put him in the car."

“Yes Sir,” Dean said, an automatic response despite knowing with every fibre of his being that no doctor was going to be able to fix Sam. As he pulled on a tee and jeans, then found a button-down that still had all it’s stitching, agitation grew in the pit of his stomach. A different kind of trepidation to what was happening with Sam; he was going to have to tell his father what happened.

“Dad, you should know—” he began when he entered the lounge, seeing his father stuffing his wallet in his back pocket while looking around for his keys. “Um, something happened to Sam the other day and I think—I think it might have made him sick," he forced out.

“What?” John’s voice was mistrustful and it made Dean shrink more than he already was. ‘Why didn’t you say something before?”

“Because…’cause I didn’t think it was anything, but maybe it was.”

“Dean, make some sense, please!”

Dean took a breath and looked John in the eye. “We were walking home and Sam saw this store he wanted to go in. It was a weird little shop I hadn’t seen before, full of all sorts of crap—”

“The point, Dean.”

“Sorry. There was this man. He scared Sam, and put this gross stamp on his hand.”

John cocked his head and frowned. “That doesn’t sound like anything that would make him sick.”

“I know. But the stamp—it...it wasn’t _normal,_ Dad. And I think somehow it might be doing something to Sam.”

Exasperated, John sighed. “I don’t have time for your hair-brained ideas, Dean.”

“I—I just thought I should say something,” Dean argued plaintively. He knew John wouldn’t understand but it still felt like a knee to the gut.

“Okay. Fair enough. But it hardly seems relevant,” John answered, more kindly though no less dismissive. “Now put your shoes on and let’s go.”

His father strode into Sam’s room and came out cradling him, wrapped up in his favorite blanket. The boy’s eyes settled nervously on Dean as his cheek was jostled about on John’s shoulder while he was carried out to the car.

The wait at urgent care seemed to take forever but eventually, they got in to see a doctor, a tall, gangly man with a strange accent; maybe german or dutch, Dean couldn't pick which. All Sam’s vitals were checked, but the doctor couldn’t provide them with any satisfactory conclusion.

“Well, his heart rate is up, which is normal for a child with a fever,” the man began. “But his temperature is not especially high right now. Have you given him any medication today?”

“No,” his father said, then looked at Dean, who shook his head in agreement.

“Hmm. I don’t think there’s any concern right now. It looks like he’s fighting some kind of infection, probably viral. He _is_ very lethargic though,” the doctor went on like he was debating himself. “It’s probably best if you take him home and monitor him closely. Give him plenty of fluids, some paracetamol or the like if his temperature increases, but most of all rest. Does that sound alright, Samuel?" he asked, peering with awkward sympathy down at Sam's face

Dean looked at his brother, who gave a faint nod before flopping his head back under John’s chin. “We’re open until eight if he takes a turn for the worse,” the doctor continued, eyes flicking between Dean and his father, “but for now just take care of him and make sure he stays warm and hydrated. You might find he has no appetite, but that’s not a problem as long as he’s drinking.”

“Okay, Doc,” John replied, apparently appeased. He gathered up the bundle in his arms. “Let’s get you home to bed, kid.”

The ride home was silent, though his father was visibly more relaxed than on the journey to the medical center. Dean stared at his hands, resting in his lap. They were his hands, familiar with their bitten-down nails and pen callus on his right middle finger. But even though the freckles dusting his knuckles were his, the fingers laced together didn't feel real. In fact, his whole body felt foreign. Almost like it was disconnecting, shedding him.

Maybe it was just the absence of adrenaline after the charged morning and night of interrupted sleep. Or maybe it was because Dean knew he had to put himself in the path of whomever—whatever—was attacking Sam.

Once they were home, Dean realized that having forgone breakfast he was now starving, and made both him and his father a sandwich. After clearing his plate he kept to himself as John fussed about Sam: trying to get him to drink, nibble at some toast, or taking his temperature at least every hour. Slipping into his bedroom, Dean left the door ajar and opened his computer, the cursor blinking in the blank search bar while he scoured for a place to start.

 _Life sucking creatures_ he typed in, the top results being about entirely natural life forms that fed off the blood of others. "Great start," he mumbled to himself. Scrolling down, he hit on more sites dedicated to mythical sanguivores: vampires and a bunch of others that all had names he couldn't begin to remember or pronounce. They weren’t close to what he was looking for, however.

He skimmed over a couple of red herrings about mental health before landing on _Mythological creatures that feed off human emotions_. That sounded closer, but none of the examples seemed to hint at any clues.

An hour and a half of futility later he slammed the device shut in irritation. It felt like he’d clicked around forever, following information trails to dead ends without a single useful fact or lead to work with. “Fucking supernatural bullshit,” he muttered, ninety-nine percent sure most of what he’d read about didn’t and had never existed. Ninety... _seven_ percent.  
Looking past his curtains he watched as clouds gathered in the afternoon sky. Not the dark, capricious kind - just substantial enough to smear out the blue, washing out the colors in the backyard and causing Dean to yearn for the brightness of the sun to bleach out the shadows.

He didn’t know how long he'd zoned out until he was distracted by voices in the kitchen. Glad of the interruption, Dean put his head out his door to hear the distinctive cadence of their neighbor. “Dean,” his father said when wandered out and made himself known, “Missouri brought us cookies. Have one, they’re delicious.”

“Oh no,” Ms. Moseley said, waving away any compliments. “They’re left over from the church bake sale. I didn’t think it was possible to bake too many, but apparently you can,” she smiled.

“Thank you, Ms. Moseley. I bet they are,” Dean assured, taking one from the generous tray in John’s hand. They did look inviting and one bite revealed they delivered on his father’s promise.

“Oh come, child. How many times do I have to tell you to call me by my name? None of this Ms business,” she waved again. “What about Sam, where’s he at this afternoon?”

“Sam isn’t feeling well. Are you Sammy?” John said, leading the way to round the end of the couch. “You wanna try a cookie, son?”

Dean couldn’t see over the couch to take note of whether Sam answered or not. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ms. Moseley cried softly, in tow and quiet enough for Dean to hear the tiny, sharp intake of breath as she looked down at the bundle of blankets his brother resided in. “Oh, young man, you do look the worse for wear,” she continued carefully, her gaze sliding over his brother with the smallest of frowns.

"We took him to get checked out this morning but the doc thinks it’s just a virus he needs to sleep off,” John explained.

"Hmm,” the woman hummed, lips pressed together. “I’m sure you’ll be right in no time with these two looking after you,” she added to Sam. “Right, Dean?”

The last two words were unmistakably launched in Dean’s direction, though he wasn’t sure if it was a challenge or an ultimatum, of sorts. Something about the caution in her earnest stare made him realize an answer was required.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied, clear as a bell.

Their neighbor nodded, happy with Dean’s assurance, but cast another worried look at his brother before she took her leave.

Standing there, half-eaten cookie between his fingers and nerves jumping around like crickets, Dean suddenly knew the time had come.

“Dad, is it okay if I go see Benny? He asked me for help with his paper.”

John straightened from where he leaned over Sam but didn’t look up. “Sure. Don’t stay out too late. Not sure what we’ll do for dinner yet though,” he added absently.

“Yes Sir,” Dean agreed. He took a quick detour to his room to pull on his coat and give himself a quick glance in the mirror before stepping out into the grey afternoon.

He didn’t know how long it would take him to walk to the old house behind the ivy-shrouded walls. He wasn’t sure of anything apart from one solitary fact: if he wanted to find something that wasn’t natural, the only person he could ask for help was the one person he knew wasn’t natural either.

He had to go and see Castiel Novak.

 

 


	5. Arcadia

 

When Dean left his house he’d felt sure of his objective, but as he trudged east towards the river his resolve flaked and blew away with the wind that gathered the clouds overhead.  _What the fuck am I even going to say?_ he panicked, stopping mid-stride and fighting the urge to turn around. _Hey, I know you’re some kind of freaky mutant and I need your help to save my brother from a monster? Yeah right, awesome conversation starter. That’s if he’s even home._ It was only the thought of Sam that morning, mute and terrified, that made him put one foot in front of the other in the direction of the old Novak house. That and the strange sense that the path under his boots was the right one.

Rounding a corner he was suddenly there, the high wall rising up across the street, wearing an awning of silver maples and oaks sporting fresh spring leaves on their overhanging branches. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the road on a diagonal course for the gap where the gate resided and arrived in front, the grill only partially softened by floral fretwork and the name “Arcadia” mounted in the center. Mouth dry while he surveyed the entrance, he wished he’d paid more attention to how much water he’d drunk before walking for over half an hour in his winter coat. Spotting a small electronic panel mounted near one of the giant hinges, he pressed the largest and most likely button and scrambled around for a reason to be there, but after a few seconds the gate grated open without any exchange.

“Okay then,” he said, watching as the lumbering iron fixture swung inwards with far more ease than he expected. He scanned nervously first for a camera then the road behind him, unsure if it was the unseen inhabitants or passersby which made him more anxious noting him there. Squaring his shoulders, Dean took his first step inside the property and began the journey up the sweeping driveway, pausing only when the sound of the gate finding home with a loud clunk caused him to jump half out of his skin.

Inside, the old estate was far more open and light that the view from the road—and the campfire stories suggested. Perhaps the imposing exterior was intentional, Dean wondered, making his way along the blacktop lined with a variety of lowly trimmed hedges and ornamentals in fading blossom. To one side there looked to be an old orchard, gnarled apple and pear trees ordered in long rows, but to the other was swaths of closely cut lawn peppered with the occasional tall specimen tree. What Dean noticed most of all, was the noise. He couldn’t see them, but the chatter from birdlife was all around him despite the darkening afternoon, like there was a party going on overhead. Twice he heard wings beat furiously past his ear, but he was too slow to be able to identify what kind of bird it was before they disappeared against the moody sky.

He forgot about trying to see them when he rounded a curve and the house rose up ahead, nestled amongst a formal assortment of rosebeds and lacebarks contained by box hedges. He’d seen a photo of the house once; an old black and white one in the little town museum, framed and blurry but containing the building he saw now but in a much earlier guise, trees small, and people assembled in front in suits and voluminous hats, children with impossible ringlets tied up in black bows. The house now was more imposing but felt nestled into its environment, like it had come of age and seen more than it cared to and dared Dean to meet it on its own terms. The red brick facade was belted halfway up with a wrap around porch sporting white filigree trim, as were the sharply pointed gables echoed in smaller dormer windows, the dark shingle roof making them look like witches hats trimmed with white lace topped with spires. It was large, but not as excessive or malevolent as his imagination had led him to believe.

Pausing where the drive widened in front of the house and its outbuildings to compose what he'd say, Dean froze when he felt a bump against his leg. Glancing down, he found the culprit turning a tight circle and aiming another nuzzle at his shin. “Hello there,” he said, bending down to tentatively scratch the cat behind one ear. “Were you trying to scare the crap outta me? ‘Cause it almost worked.” The cat merely blinked at him then sat down, expectant tail lazily swishing at the tip. “Alright-alright. I’m working up to it,” he assured his companion.

Bracing his courage, he made for the wide steps flanked with gnarled topiaries in giant urns, taking them one at a time until he was in the dim lee of the battened front door. He couldn’t turn back, they were expecting him—or someone—but reaching for the heavy iron knocker had the butterflies in his stomach shuffle their wings with each clang against the wood. Then he took a step back, and waited.

The door was opened promptly by Mrs Novak. Dean couldn’t recall having ever spoken to her, but he’d seen Cas’s mother around town, more so in the last year at various school events. She was pretty rather than beautiful, with chestnut hair and round, blue eyes a few shades lighter than her son’s. There was always a coolness to her, belied, Dean thought, by a sly and knowing slant to her barely-there smile.

“Hello there.”

“Uh—Hi, Mrs. Novak. I’m Dean, Dean—”

“Winchester,” the woman finished for him, eyes alight. “Yes, I know.”

“Um, yes.” Dean faltered. He was not expecting to be known here, or to be greeted with restrained pleasure. “Can I speak with Cas—Castiel, if he’s home?”

Pushing the door wide, she stepped aside by way of invitation. “You’ll have to ask him that.”

“Thank you.” Treading over the threshold, Dean looked around the expansive hallway as Mrs. Novak shut the door behind them, but not before the cat dashed through at the last moment to continue to the stairs ahead then up and out of view.

“He’s in his room. You can follow me,” Mrs. Novak said, brushing past and leading him in the same direction. Dean lagged behind, trying not to gawk at the furnishings. Opulence was perhaps an overstatement, but the tapestries and paintings on the wood-paneled walls and ceramics on the various sills and cabinets spoke of a history of affluence, slightly shabby now in the darkened interior, though the cut flowers burgeoning impossibly from a large vase atop a console at the end of the hallway were anything but past their prime. In fact, Dean could swear some of them were permanent, twisting like aspiring vines up the wall toward the vaulted ceiling. It was pretty, but it’s wrongness tugged at Dean’s brain as much as their exuberant perfume.

“Up here,” the woman he was following said, realizing he’d stalled as the base of the stairs. Hurrying to catch up, they soon arrived at a generous landing and stopped outside the first door, the cat already waiting with less patience than outside.

Mrs. Novak knocked softly. “Castiel?”

Castiel's voice, unmistakable for its gravel pitch from even a single syllable came from the other side. “Yes?”

“You have a visitor.” Mrs. Novak smiled thinly at Dean as she said it, as if torn between politeness and a secret conceit.

“A what?” was the sharp reply. Dean shifted his feet.

“Dean Winchester is here to see you.”

Dean heard a couple of footsteps, then the door opened abruptly, Castiel’s astonished face appearing in the space it left, clearly not ready for Dean to be standing on the other side.

“Winchester,” he said hesitantly. Dean had the distinct impression he’d thrust a spot quiz on his schoolmate.

He rode a rush of bravado. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping by,” Dean began, drawing his best grin across his face and flashing it briefly at Castiel's mother. “I was passing and I wanted to ask you for those trig notes after all.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed as he gained control over his disorientation. “Right,” he drawled suspiciously. “Sure.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Novak said, privately satisfied. “Dean, can I take your coat? I’ll leave it downstairs.”

“Uh, sure. Thanks,” Dean replied, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it over.

“Castiel, _play nice_ ,” she warned, glaring at her son before adding warmly to Dean, “and please, call me Naomi.” Then she turned back towards the stairs leaving Dean at Cas’s mercy.

“You couldn’t call?” the other boy accused once she'd retreated out of view, though not hotly.

Dean shoved his hands into his front pockets and shrugged, unapologetic. “Didn’t have your number, sorry.”

“An oversight, clearly,” Castiel answered, mostly to himself. “Come in, then.”

For the second time in a handful of minutes Dean crossed a doorway by invitation, but if the inside of the Novak house was gloomy and close in the way the Victorians seemed to favor, Castiel’s room was positively murky, not to mention huge. Several lamps threw out small pools of yellow light, but they only served to create areas of shadow reaching across the floor and up into the beams crisscrossing the ceiling. A double bed, something which Dean did not have the luxury of owning sat at the opposite end of the room, which was lined on one side with bookcases and on the other a wide desk housing a large-screened computer surrounded by stacks of papers and printed photographs. A couch sat in the middle, littered with texts and several items of clothing, which Castiel now hurried to scoop up and remove, a shadow himself with his dark hair and black sweater and jeans soaking up light as he moved junk to the desk.

“Don’t get many visitors, huh?” Dean observed, a little cruelly he’d admit. He’d never seen Castiel consistently hang out with particular friends and although he wasn’t disliked, other kids didn’t gravitate towards him. Which always seemed to Dean to be the way he preferred it.

“I’m sure your room is fit for the Queen of England to drop in without warning,” Castiel bit back caustically, then crossed to one of the shelves and began to rummage through an assortment of binders. “Take a seat and I’ll find the old tests.”

Dean complied, sinking into the cracked, soft leather and immediately wished he had something to do with his hands, remembering his phone resided in the pocket of his commandeered coat. Instead, the wind outside caught his attention, scratching branches against the tall church-like window. To his consternation, rain began to splatter on the outside of the pane.

“Great,” he muttered to himself, just as the third occupant of the room jumped into his lap to press their front paws just below his ribs and eye him speculatively.

“Found them,” Castiel said, rounding the couch and dropping a wad of paper on the floor near Dean’s feet before seating himself at the opposite end. The cat relinquished Dean from its weighted attention and walked to impose on Castiel’s lap instead.

“What?” Dean asked in response to his host’s inquisitive brows.

Castiel scritched under her chin. “She never sits on anyone else. Not ever.”

Seldom at ease with being singled out, Dean reflexively invoked his god-given swagger. “What can I say? I'm adorable,” he beamed, eliciting possibly the world’s longest eye-roll from Castiel. “What’s her name?” Dean added, aware he was just stalling now.

“Atalanta, daughter of Arcadia” Castiel replied, gesturing to the room and beyond with a sweep of his arm as if he was dramatically introducing her to a much larger audience than just Dean. “But mostly I call her Fluffy.”

“Fluffy?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, raking fingers through her voluminous, wispy fur. “Cats prefer descriptive terms. They abhor pomp or symbolism unless, of course, it presides with them.”

 _Such a weirdo_ , Dean uncharitably thought, tempted to laugh anyway. Something in the way they were smiling at each other, in his room, in this house of all places suddenly informed Dean he was growing comfortable. He didn’t want to be comfortable. He needed to stay on task.

He stood, trying to ground himself in his purpose again but was distracted by an object he hadn’t noticed when he’d been reluctantly ushered into the room; what looked to be an anatomically correct skeleton, dangled from a stand in the corner behind the door.

“Who’s this?” Dean asked, pretending to shake the remains of one of its hands and trying to lighten the air which had become dense again in the shift to silence.

“My uncle. Great-great uncle, in fact.” Dean dropped the boney digit he held and shrank away. “Don’t worry,” Castiel said, amusement transforming his features in a way Dean had never seen, “he went willingly. In this family, the males don’t stay around for long once they’ve served their purpose, so this one may even count himself lucky.”

Dean clamped his mouth shut from where it hung. “Are you fucking with me?” he finally asked.

“I only joke about the serious things,” Castiel answered, the smile snaking his lips withholding any clues.

Drifting to face the bookcase, Dean trailed his fingertips along the spines of paperbacks while he tried to decipher Castiel’s mood and everything else the room presented about him. He was different, here, to what he was at school.

“Dean, why are you here?”

Dean looked over sharply at the use of his first name. He’d never heard it from Castiel’s mouth before and it lowered his armor, allowing the fierce stare directed his way to penetrate. They’d exchanged many glances over the past year but this one was perhaps the most brazen.

Dean swallowed and plunged. “My brother is getting worse. He’s sicker than anyone knows.”

Castiel frowned, mouth quavering as if he was debating the correct response, eventually settling on a neutral and polite, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I thought you might be able to help.”

“Me?”

“Yes you, Castiel. Because I know you’re...you’re a—” A number of names ran through Dean’s head, some of which he’d encountered on Google earlier that afternoon: _...conjurer...sylph…_

Studiously looking the other boy over the cat caught Dean’s eye, blinking at him with luminous moons, the black expanse of her fur enveloped in Castiel’s greater darkness as she preened under his stroking palm. “—a _witch_ ,” Dean whispered, smiling to himself at the clichéd scene in front of him, the word nonetheless sliding home like a bolt.

To Castiel’s credit, his face didn’t show any reaction to Dean’s claim, his features smoothing out like crumpled paper under a pressing hand. But then, gradually, anger claimed his generous mouth.

“And what?” Castiel snapped. “You expect me to whip out my cauldron and throw in some boiled frogs, eye of newt and one of Uncle Frederick’s bones there and _poof!_ he’s fixed?”

Of all the responses Dean had envisioned, that wasn’t one of them. Nor was it denial. ‘No—” he began.

“What then?” Castiel interrupted coldly before Dean could gather himself. “Take him to a doctor like any rational person would.”

“We have. We did. But the doc thinks he’s fine.”

“Then congratulations, he probably is!”

“He’s not, Cas.” Deal growled quietly.

“I think I’d trust a medical opinion over your own right now, given you came here thinking somehow I’d put on robes and a pointy hat make everything better!” Tiring of her owner’s shouting, Fluffy left Castiel’s thighs with a soft thud and prowled to the door to convene a wash of her back. “You should be more careful, Winchester,” Castiel continued, his temper ebbing into a sulk. “I could demand payment you’re not prepared for. A pint of your blood, or your firstborn. Maybe even your soul.”

A chill trickled down Dean’s spine for the first time at the gust of malice in the room. “So, you admit it then,” he argued bravely. Perhaps stupidly.

Castiel threw back his head in frustration. “I admit I misjudged _you_. But I’ll take responsibility for that. I thought all those looks across the cafeteria meant you were making entirely different assumptions about me.”

Dean gaped while his brain clunked away, assessing Castiel’s meaning. “Wait. You thought I was here because I _liked_ you?” he asked, impatience converting to indignation. Their anger was unsynchronized.

“Well, you didn’t walk all the way here and into the lion’s den for those trig notes,” Castiel observed with a sneer.

“God, you’re actually quite full of yourself aren’t you.” Dean licked his lips and let out a deep breath. “I’m not gay, dude.”

“Really? Forgive me, but given the way you seem to think my eyes should be where my mouth is, I assumed otherwise.”

“I'm into girls,” he protested. He was lying by omission but hoped staying irate would prevent Castiel from detecting it in his voice. Because sometimes...sometimes he did find himself looking at boys the way he looked at girls. He just didn’t know what to do about it and therefore swept those impulses as far under his psychological carpet as he could.

Cas tilted his head to the side, confused but seemingly unperturbed by upsetting him.

Then the full truth struck him. “You _want_  me to like you,” Dean surmised.

Castiel pulled a face, but it was not directed at Dean. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he mumbled to the floor, then looked up again. “I’ve taught myself not to give a damn. About anything. I had to, to survive. But you? You intrigue me.”

“You like me,” Dean said, grinning insanely as if the thought didn’t petrify him.

His host massaged at his forehead like he'd developed a headache. “You’re a pain in my ass, Winchester, “ he remarked.

“Ditto,” Dean volleyed back.

“You really have a strange way of asking for help, you know that?” 

Dean’s smile dropped, along with his stomach. “It’s clear you’re not going to give it to me, even if you could.”

“I don’t know what you expected I could do.”

They traded scowls, at a stalemate, Dean forfeiting with a sigh. “I don’t know either,” he grouched. “I should go.”

Castiel didn’t argue and Dean felt an unwelcome flash of disappointment. Turning, he avoided the cat and pulled open the door, leaving it ajar before skipping down the stairs, boots tapping a rhythm on each tread. Even though the house was beginning to feel familiar, for the first time since he’d arrived he was eager to leave it.

However, an older woman stood at the bottom preventing his easy escape. ‘Um, Hi, Ma’am,” he said breathless from more than the physical exertion. “I was just on my way out.”

“Are you sure, dear? You’ve not eaten, have you. Why not let us fix you something in the kitchen first.”

Dean dithered under her analytical gaze. He knew exactly who she was despite only ever seeing her once, maybe twice in his life. She was smaller than Castiel’s mother with long hair, bright white but for a single dark lock in the front and once plush lips that curled into an impish smile. Wearing a flowing peacock-patterned kaftan and a silver ring on each finger, Dean had to admit if anyone in the house looked like a witch, it was old Mrs. Novak. “Actually, can I get a drink of water?” he asked.

“Follow me if you please, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean did, trailing in her wake and feeling impulse to flee dissipate as they arrived in a large open living area. Several sets of french doors to one side revealed it was all but dark outside. _How long have I been here?_  he asked himself in dismay. Time had betrayed him and passed more quickly than it should.

Mrs. Novak senior gestured at a palatial dining table. “Have a seat and Naomi will get you that drink.”

“Thank you, Ma’am" he said, his manners kicking in as he pulled out a chair. "You have a lovely house.”

“This ramshackle old thing? I suppose ‘lovely’ is a word some might use. We can’t do a lot to it. As you may know, it’s a ‘house of historical significance’, and it wouldn’t let us anyway. But in return, it wraps itself around us while we poke about between its ribs. We are wedded to each other,” she finished, in a tone that didn’t sound nearly as resigned as her strange description of her home.

“Did Castiel bother you, Dean?” Cas’s mother asked, appearing from a side door. “He can be terribly inept.” She set a clear glass down at his elbow, along with a plate containing a crude sandwich made from two thick slices of bread. It wasn’t until he saw the food he heard his stomach complain at missing more than one meal during the day.

“Thank you,” Dean said and took a bite, the tomato in between blessedly disguised with hefty seasoning. “I probably bothered him more,” he confessed around a mouthful.

“Pssh,” dismissed Naomi. “I apologize if he was difficult. He’s come such a long way, and his faults are as much my own, you understand.”

Dean didn’t understand at all, beyond that Castiel’s mother apparently needed him to.

“And mine,” added his grandmother.

“I can hear you, you know,” said Castiel, waltzing into the room to toss a handful of paper onto the table in front of Dean. “You forgot these. Which you came for. Remember?” he added dryly.

“Castiel, please,” Naomi said, as softly as a cushion poised to smother.

“Please what, Mother? Am I not being polite enough for your private school sensibilities?”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” she said, leaning down conspiratorially and causing Castiel to leak a noise of exasperation.

Dean's appetite evaporated at finding himself the focal point for a bigger, unknown argument between the unusual trio standing around him. “Uh, I should get going,” he said, putting down the half-eaten sandwich. “It’s late and my Dad’s probably wondering where I am.”

“Oh, you can’t possibly be intending to walk home in this weather,” Naomi exclaimed. “Let Cas drive you. Castiel, go fetch the car will you?”

“It’s okay—”

“I’m sure Dean can walk—” both Castiel and Dean protested simultaneously.

“Castiel!” Old Mrs. Novak silenced them both in one taut word. “Get the car and see this charming young man home safely.” Castiel chose not to answer, pressing his lips together and leaving the room. Dean drank his water, throat dryer than ever, Castiel reentering the room just as he’d put down his glass.

Drops of rain danced in his hair. “Your carriage awaits,” he announced, affecting a bored manner.

The legs of Dean’s chair scraped loudly as he rose and made his farewells to the women. “Thank you, and I’m sorry if I intruded."

“Not at all, dear,” said Castiel’s grandmother. “You’ll be back soon, I’m sure. You’ve eaten our bread and salt, after all. That means you’re always welcome here.”

“Oh, Winchester, you dolt," Castiel declared, accompanied by another Olympic level eye-roll. "I really have overestimated you.” 

“Goodbye, Dean. It was a delight meeting you,” Naomi said, ignoring her son completely.

“Bye.” He bashfully gave each of the Novak matriarchs a smile then followed Cas to the front door, finding his coat hanging there as promised. He shrugged it on and stuffed the roll of test papers in a pocket before they made the twenty-foot dash from the front steps to the car through the squall.

Neither of them said a word throughout the entire journey, which felt longer than the ten or so minutes it took Castiel to rocket down the vacant Sunday-evening suburban streets to Dean’s driveway. Pulling to a stop behind the impala, the other boy put the car in park and swiveled in his seat.

“What _is_ wrong with your brother, Winchester?”

Dean didn’t meet his eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the porch light beyond the frantically working wiper blades.

“He’s been claimed by something.”

“Something?”

“A...a soul-vampire, demon— I’m not sure.”

Castiel scoffed derisively. “This is Kansas, not medieval Romania,” he said. “It’s most likely the flu, or chicken pox.”

“It's not. I _know_ what it’s not,” Dean said calmly. "I know it's something not human."

“How?”

“I dunno,” he answered, drumming fingers on his knee while he contemplated. Finally, he turned to look Castiel dead in the eye. “Same way I knew exactly what you were, didn’t I?”

With that Dean got out, not bothering to look back as he slammed the door and darted up the steps and into his home.

 

 

 


	6. The Invitee

 

His father hadn't missed him while he was out, Dean finding him dozing, mouth open and snoring in the solo armchair after dusting rain out of his hair and hanging up his coat. Once Dean had roused him  John had sent them both off to bed, insisting it was his own turn to tend to Sam if need be so that Dean could get a decent rest before the start of the school week.

Dean still slept with one ear open to listen for Sam over the wind outside, but not before lying awake going over the strange journey to and from the Novak’s. He tried to stay mad at Cas but soon concluded he needed to put it aside; it wasn’t going to do Sam any good, and the truth was the itch at the back of his brain that wanted to know more about Castiel had only grown more irritated for being scratched.

Sam traversed the night better than the previous one, Dean only hearing the odd restless whimper through the wall between their bedrooms. When Dean ventured out of bed in the morning John was nonetheless frowning over his coffee mug, staring at the contents like they held answers to the future.

“How’s Sam?” Dean asked without preamble as he walked past where John sat.

“No better, no worse," his father answered. Dean poured his much-needed cup and turned to lean against the kitchen counter. “But he can’t go to school. Garth already has the day off so I have to go to the shop. He might just have to come with me.” John’s voice was flat with dead ends.

“Missouri?” Dean offered.

“Working. Already asked her.”

“Ah.” Dean hesitated, fearing a rebuke but he had to give it a shot. For Sam’s sake. “I’m on top of all my assignments. I could stay here?”

John looked up sharply, the shadows under his eyes made more apparent by the fresh spring sunlight, the storm having blown itself out sometime in the night. “Can you do some work at home?” he asked, catching Dean off guard.

“Uh, I could finish that paper, and study for my trig test on Friday.”

His father hoisted his chin as he ruminated. “Okay,” he sighed, defeated. “I’ll call you in.”

Surprise made Dean nearly miss the rim of his cup, coffee sloshing against his mouth as he misjudged his sip. John never let him stay home from school unless he was at death’s door. But this way, he could keep an eye on Sam as well as work on figuring out how to find a way to help him, and it was enough for a little of the tension he hoarded in his shoulders to bleed out.

John called both their schools to advise that his sons wouldn’t be attending for the day, then left with the strict command—and Dean’s promises—to call him if Sam showed any signs of change or deterioration. Dean nodded along as his father’s instructions on how to care for Sam like he hadn’t nursed his brother through every cold and flu he’d ever had, but still the first thing he did was make Sam a warm cocoa as well as a diluted juice to entice him to drink.

Sam woke easily under Dean’s gentle shake, Dean trying to keep his reactions in check as he came into close enough proximity that the now familiar smell hanging close around Sam made itself known.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said softly. “Wanna sit up for me and have a sip of one of these?” John had been right, and wrong. Sam didn’t seem any worse as he nodded and pushed himself up to lean on the pillow Dean plumped behind his back. He was sleepy and weak, his hair a matted bird’s nest from several days of lying down and having nightmares, and although he wasn’t exactly greedy he did down half the orange juice before giving the glass back to Dean.

However, there were small, subtle changes that scared Dean. His brother’s eyes were vague and restless like he couldn’t quite focus either his brain or his vision, and his skin had the slightest shriveled appearance like he was shrinking underneath, a bit like a forgotten plum left in summer's humid heat after falling from the tree.

“No bad dreams last night?” Dean asked hopefully.

Sam’s gaze shifted before he looked down, shaking his head before reaching for Wroof. Dean knew it was a lie and worse, for his benefit. “You can tell me about it if you want,” he added, but Sam simply picked at a pulled thread on his blanket, ignoring Dean’s efforts.

“Hey! We both get to play hookey, how about that?” Dean tried with heroic enthusiasm. “Wanna go watch some TV?” Finally, the hint of a smile pulled at his brother’s mouth before Dean bundled up his favorite things and followed him as he padded out to the couch, settling him with his pillow, blanket and toy, and the remains of the drinks before pouring a bowl of cereal for each of them. Afterward, he retrieved his laptop and ensconced himself at the other end of the couch to make attempt number two at research.

This time, despite his intentions, the empty search bar lured him down a different path. _Male Witch_ he began, immediately reading a long page discussing the differences between witches and warlocks, then another on wizards he abandoned as soon as he came across the first Harry Potter picture. From there he read introductions to Wicca, histories of witchcraft and persecutions, and then followed his nose to types of mages and shaman before sifting through results on witchcraft in different religions and cultures. None of it—nothing at all—seemed to give any clues as to what Castiel might be or more importantly, be able to do.

Why did he even come up with 'Witch' he thought, beginning to doubt himself for the first time. He had no tangible basis for such an outlandish claim, besides the feeling he got around Cas from the day he’d first seen him. That and several curious but inconsequential phenomena which, he had to admit, could have simply been his imagination. Suddenly he was hit with disbelief that not only had he marched over to the Novak house uninvited but had sat in Castiel Novak’s room and alleged to his indignant face that he was some preternatural aberration of a human being. He didn’t even _believe_ in witches. Or ghosts and demons and vampires for that matter.

Before he knew it his stomach rumbled, signaling it was almost lunchtime and that he’d been sitting there wasting too much of the time he’d been gifted and running his laptop battery almost out. Sam had fallen asleep again, so Dean put his computer on to charge and went to scrape together a grilled cheese sandwich for himself, eating it standing in the kitchen while he made another for Sam, taking it to the dozing child and waking him for a second time. Dean watched closely as he nibbled into one triangle before Sam zoned out again, not looking at anything in particular and least of all the cartoons, which Dean turned off. “Wanna go back to bed, Sammy?” he asked, putting his palm to Sam’s cool, clammy forehead.

Sam nodded. “When will Dad be home?” he asked.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “A few hours,” he said. “It’s Monday, so he’s at work all day.”

“‘Kay,” Sam answered.

“Did you forget?” The boy shrugged. “Okay, let’s get you into your own bed so you don’t have to nap on this lumpy sofa,” Dean suggested, picking him up blankets and all and waddling into Sam’s room to set him down. Sam simply rolled over and for all appearances went straight to sleep again.

Agitation welled up in Dean’s chest, prompting him to pull the cord to his laptop around his bed and rebooted it again to begin looking for any clues as to what was affecting his brother. He’d just begun sorting through a surprisingly lengthy list of results for  _Morningstar Antiques_ when he heard an impatient knock at the door.

Jogging down the hallway and through the kitchen, he opened the door to see Castiel’s startled turnaround at the foot of the steps. “I didn’t think you were home,” his visitor said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the bike he’d been set to leave on again.

“I was studying,” Dean lied, “didn’t hear you.”

“Oh,” Castiel said uselessly, fiddling with the gloves half-stuffed in the helmet in his hands.

“What did you want, Cas?”

The boy tucked the helmet under his arm and finally stopped fidgeting. He looked up at Dean with a pained face, like the conversation was costing him effort. “You weren’t at school, so I wanted to check that you—and your brother—were alright.”

Dean sighed, mostly to try subduing the canter in his pulse. “You wanna come up?”

Castiel looked along the street, then back at Dean before ascending the short set of steps. “Are you inviting me in?” Castiel asked tensely, as if he needed it confirmed in writing.

“Sure,” Dean said. Castiel hesitated, then Dean added “Come in,” as he stepped sideways to let him past.

Once into the plainness of the kitchen, Castiel’s leather jacket and wild hair looked more exotic than they did outside, his tall lace-up boots clumping against the linoleum. “Thanks,” he said, smiling at last. “I thought I was going to have to go back to school and explain my absence.”

“You cut school...to come here?”

The incredulity in Dean’s tone caused a flash of exasperation across Castiel’s features. He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. “I wasn’t happy with where we left our conversation last night,” he said as if he was Dean’s therapist or counselor or something.

“Our conversation,” Dean repeated.

“Yes,” Castiel said gruffly. “The one where you called me names and then tried to storm first out of my house and then my car—my mother’s car—because I wouldn’t help you.”

“Oh, _that_ conversation,” Dean supplied, eyebrows hiking to the ceiling. The difference in Castiel in Dean’s house to what he was in his own was conspicuous. Here he wasn’t as charged and looming, but he was no more ordinary and it made the hair rise along Dean's forearms.

“You seem okay,” Castiel noted, looking Dean up and down, “other than looking like you just rolled out of bed,” he added, drawing Dean’s attention to the now shameful fact he hadn’t bothered exchanging his pajamas for clothes that morning. “How’s your brother? What’s his name, by the way?”

“Sam.”

“Sam,” Castiel drawled, trying the name out.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and tried to hide his bare feet, feeling like he’d become a project. “Dad had to work. He called me in so I could look after him.”

“Is he still—do you still think he’s sick in the way you think he is?”

“I dunno. Are you still denying you’re some kind of witch?” Dean challenged nervously, though he had to smile. Castiel could be awkward but he’d never seen him meek before, chin almost touching his chest as he studied the floor. “Yeah, I know he is. I tried to tell my Dad but he would never believe me.”

Castiel made a wry humming noise. “Fathers are like that,” he agreed, looking up somewhere past Dean’s shoulder and into the house. “Can I take a look at him?”

They squared off, Castiel’s expectant gaze holding Dean’s quizzical one. “Sure,” he agreed eventually. “He’s napping, but he’s this way.”

Unzipping his jacket and twisting his arms from the tight sleeves, Castiel draped it over a dining chair as he accompanied Dean down the hall. They paused outside the door covered in various versions of Sam’s name, from paint and pen coloring to the little wooden letters Dean remembered his Mom tacking to the door in the days after she came home from the hospital with a baby in her arms.

Dean shushed a reminder with a finger to his mouth then swung the door open, Castiel’s face changing abruptly. “Oh my God, Winchester! What is that smell?” he asked in a terse whisper, nose wrinkled and top lip curled in disgust. Dean could have hugged him right there in the doorway from sheer relief.

“You can smell it?”

“Of course, it’s repugnant. What do you mean ‘I can smell it’?”

“My Dad can’t,” Dean explained, hushed. “The doctor didn't. Only I can.”

“Hmm,” Castiel mused and walked closer to the bed. Peering down, he canted his head to the left then laid a hand first on Sam’s head, then his chest. Then he looked at Dean, full of alarm.

Dean froze. “What?” he asked hoarsely.

“Well, well, Winchester. You were right.” Castiel swallowed, adam's apple bobbing. Lifting his hands to his hips, he frowned down at Sam again. “You better tell me everything.”

The admission was something Dean hadn’t known he needed to hear quite so badly, even though the consolation of knowing he wasn’t crazy was bitter. Pulling the door to behind them Dean led the way, gesturing for Castiel to take a seat at the table. “Coffee? Juice?”

“Water is fine, thank you,” Castiel replied.

Sitting down across from Castiel after fetching them both a drink, Dean unfolded the story. He kept it to the bare bones: the creepy shop and man with the now telltale smell, how he’d pounced on Sam’s hand to leave the stamp and Sam shortly after starting to grow fatigued and then sick. He even described Sam’s bad dreams with fearful visions, but left out the warning he’d received the morning it happened. Castiel didn’t need to know Dean was a freak as well.

“How did you know he was dangerous when you saw him—that he’s even the center of all this?” Castiel asked, long, slender fingers steepled under his chin.

Dean shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

“Did he have any kind of distinguishing marks? Or tattoos?” Dean shook his head. “What did you say his name was?”

“Azazel,” Dean reiterated, the very name making him want to puke his guts out. “Mean anything to you?”

“Not at all. But it might to my grandmother.”

Dean blinked. “Your grandmother?”

Castiel did that odd little head-tilt again. “Dean,” he began, hesitating on a long intake of breath. “When did you know? About me, I mean.”

Dean gnawed on a hangnail, then decided to tell him the truth as far as he could. “I dunno. Always knew you were different. But I’d never put it into words until last night.”

“ _How_ did you know?” Castiel asked, his eyes intent now and boring into Dean’s.

“I just did. Sometimes I...I guess I sense things,” he disclosed impatiently. “Not sure how or why. Just happens, always has.” Castiel hummed, drumming restless fingertips on the table top while he contemplated either his own or Dean's predicament, Dean couldn't tell which. “So can you help? You are what I think you are, right?” It was his turn to pin Castiel’s gaze to draw out an answer.

“You’re not too far from the mark,” Castiel supplied carefully. “‘Witch’ is not a word we use to label ourselves. We don’t, in fact. Labels tempt fate.”

“We?”

“Me, my mother and grandmother. My whole family tree, as far as I’m told.” Dean sat back in his chair, not knowing why he should be astonished. But he was. “You couldn’t tell?”

Dean cleared his throat, pulling his stare away from where it had fallen on the V in Castiel’s shirt while he searched his memories of last night for clues he must have missed. “No.”

“Just me?”

“Only you.”

Castiel frowned, scanning Dean’s face like it was a puzzle that had been put together out of order while Dean worked up to his next question. He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but something told him he needed confirmation.

“Cas—do I have any reason to be afraid of you?”

A parade of emotions crossed Castiel’s face: first shock, followed by amusement, then landing on impressed.

“There’s good, and there’s bad,” he said eventually.

“Which one are you?” Dean pressed.

“I’m not sure that has been decided yet.”

“That’s not an answer.”

This time it was Castiel who shrugged. “It’s the only one I have.”

Dean wanted to push him further, but a cry from his brother’s room put him on alert. It wasn’t a noise he’d heard from Sam before even though it was clear it was his strangled voice.

“Sam?” he called, springing out of his chair and marching down the hallway. “Sammy!” he cried again, pushing open the door to see Sam’s tiny body rigid to the point it arched off the bed, heels and fists digging into the mattress and his eyes rolled back in his head. “Oh god, Sammy,” he panted, rushing to kneel by his side and immediately not knowing where to touch him, or if he should touch him.

“Dean?” Castiel caught up to him to stand over his shoulder and watch just as Sam’s jaw unlocked and he fell limply back down, unconscious.

“Sam,” Dean whispered, over and over like a chant, ignoring the other boy and desperately touching his brother’s forehead, his wrists, his cheeks, anything to try and reassure himself Sam was still alive. Finally, Sam’s eyelids fluttered and he reached out, clamping around Dean’s forefinger and taking a shuddering breath.

“What happened?” Castiel asked, his voice sounding far away.

“Some kind of fit or something, I don’t know!” He stroked Sam’s forehead, still quietly babbling his name and assurances he was safe. A few minutes passed and Sam’s breathing returned to a shallow rhythm, allowing Dean’s heart to do the same. “I need to call my Dad,” he said flatly, rising and bumping Castiel’s shoulder on his way past.

“Dad,” he said, once he’d successfully fossicked in his room for his phone and dialed. “It’s Sam. Can you come home?”

_“What’s wrong, son?”_

“I dunno. He had a seizure of some kind. It only lasted a few seconds, and he seems okay now. He’s sleeping. But I don’t know what to do, Dad,” he admitted, his voice sounding pitifully small.

 _“A what? Stay there, Dean. I’ll shut up and be there in fifteen. If it happens again, call an ambulance,”_ John commanded, then cut off the call.

Dean dropped his phone on his bed, shooting his hands to his head and tugging at his hair so sparks of pain dissipated some of his fear. Helplessness and guilt sloshed together in a wave that washed through his innards. “I’m sorry Sammy,” he murmured to himself. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have let this happen. But I’m gonna fix this. I _will_.” Then he turned and strode back into Sam’s room.

He was taken aback by the sight of Castiel, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Sam’s head and gazing intently at his brother’s face. “Any change?” Dean asked.

“No, he seems to be sleeping.”

“My Dad’s coming.”

“You want me to go?”

‘No,” Dean replied quickly. “No, you’re good. Unless you want to?” the question forcing its way unbidden into the sentence.

“I can stay,” Castiel assured, looking anything but sure he wanted to.

“What’s happening, Cas?” he asked, brittle and terrified.

“He’s sealing up, Dean,” Castiel answered quietly. “I’m not sure by who or what, but it’s a kind of remote possession, I suppose you could call it. One that’s drawing from him, and he’s shutting down to slow the progress. Hibernate, if you will. That’s all I can sense.”

“Sealing up?”

“Dean—” Castiel’s expression was thoughtful, as if he was grappling with a new concept. “I’m not sure that anything can be done for him. Medically or otherwise.”

“What?” Dean turned his shock from Castiel’s blue stare to his brother’s now peaceful face. “What do you mean—that’s it’s too late?”

Castiel's answer was patient. “It was possibly inevitable from the moment you entered that store.”

Dean’s chest heaved and he stumbled out of Sam’s room before he crumpled to the floor. Castiel found him moments later, forehead pressed to the wall in his bedroom struggling for breath.

“You’re upset,” Castiel stated the obvious.

“Of course I’m upset!” Dean exploded. “He’s my little brother and you just told me he’s going to die like you don’t give a shit!”

“I’m sor—”

“Just—just stop. I don’t need your sorry.” He spun around to confront the other boy, who looked more confused than ever. It didn’t stop him from unloading his anger. “Jesus, don’t you get it? Are you not human at all?”

Castiel clenched his fists at his sides. “I told you I was the wrong choice for talking about feelings,” he replied, resentment underscoring his admission.

A _fuck you_ teetered in the tip on Dean’s tongue, but he swallowed it just as he heard the front door crash open.

“Dean!?” his father called.

“Down here, Dad,” he replied in kind and stalked out of his room.

“How is he?” John asked as they met in the hallway, but didn’t wait for an answer as he cut left into Sam’s room. Once he’d established for himself that Sam didn’t appear in immediate danger, he turned back to Dean. ‘What happened?”

“He’s been okay—asleep, mostly, but okay. We heard him cry and came in here and he was having this fit, all stiff and shaking. Then it stopped and he went back to sleep, and I called. He’s been the same as this since.”

“We?” his father said, just as Castiel decided to appear at Dean’s shoulder. “Who’s this?

“This is Cas, Dad. Castiel Novak.” John continued to look bewildered.

“Hi, Mr. Winchester. I’d just dropped by to see if Dean needed anything from school,” Cas said confidently, like reassuring fathers of his intentions was his party trick.

John blinked, satisfied, and disregarded the unexpected intrusion to reset his attention. “Dean, you take his temperature. I’m going to call the clinic, see what we should do. Okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

It was then Sam let out a strange whimper. “Sam?” John said, then “Sammy!” as the boy began to jerk again, his limbs and hips going rigid as his muscles stiffened and convulsed. “It’s okay Sammy, it’s okay,” John repeated, grasping a small hand.

“Dad?” Dean said, his heart in his mouth. “Shall I call an ambulance?”

His father didn’t answer.

“Dad?” he tried again.

“Yes!” Dean turned around, having heard what he needed but nearly bumping in Castiel. “No! No—it will take too long. I’ll take him.” Dean stopped in his tracks and spun again to see his brother’s body crumple as he stopped spasming. “Help me get his things to the car,” John barked, gathering Sam up in his arms.

“Things?” Dean repeated, his extremities starting to feel numb.

John swung past them. “Blanket! Toy! Find his slippers! Bring them out.”

Dean frantically set to searching Sam’s room, locating the fluffy boots under the bed and scooping up two blankets and Wroof, hightailing it after his father who was already securing Sam in the back seat. “What about me?” he asked, coming to the realization John had no intention of taking him.

“Stay here, son. I might need you later,” John replied wildly.

“With no car? Dad, please!”

“No, Dean. Look at you!” Dean did, full of remorse at his day-old bed attire.

“I can bring Dean later with anything you require, Sir,” said Castiel, appearing at Dean’s side.

John nodded, then took the items from where they were already forgotten in Dean’s hands. “I’ll call you,” he said. Rounding the bumper he sank into the driver’s seat and drove away, the engine laboring under John’s heavy foot.

Left on the stoop, Dean felt hollowed out, every way he knew how to feel having driven off down the street.

“Dean,” Castiel soothed, placing a careful hand on Dean’s shoulder, the touch more like a brand than the comfort it was intended.

“Don’t” growled Dean, unkind and indiscriminate in his barbs, external or internal as his thoughts flew. Stalking past the other boy he made straight for the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast. Under the scorching water his tears were molten, turning to stone, like lava forming a new coastline of resolve so that by the time he was out and dry, he knew exactly what he had to do.

When he exited the bathroom he almost did a double take seeing Castiel leaning in the doorway at the beginning of the hallway. Castiel did the same, his gaze self-consciously taking in Dean in only a damp towel. “Sorry. Didn’t know you’d still be here,” Dean apologized.

“I promised your father I'd help.”

Dean nodded, then retreated to his room to get dressed. When he emerged, the other boy was still in the exact spot. “So you’ll take me somewhere?” he pressed, squeezing past to collect his jacket from the closet by the door.

“Sure, “ Castiel said, picking up his own and contorting into it, zipping the long zipper. “Where are we going?”

Dean shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets and lifted his chin defiantly to face Castiel.

“To find that fucking monster, Azazel.”

 

 

 


	7. The Novak Witches

 

“Are you going to help or not?” Dean demanded to Castiel’s impassive face.

When Castiel finally spoke, it was wooden. “That’s not taking you to the hospital.”

All his exposed nerves raw, this time it did leap out. “Fuck you,” Dean spat and stormed past him, throwing the front door wide.

“Dean—”

“No!” Dean yelled, spinning on his heels. “Cas, I don’t know how to help Sam, but I do know that you’re the only one who can help _me_. So either do that, or go the hell home.”

Castiel’s stoney facade softened, confusion drooping his mouth at the corners. “I can help you by taking you to talk to my grandmother,” he compromised.

Dean’s shoulders relaxed just a shade as he allowed himself a moment to look the boy over; artfully faded black jeans tucked into tall boots, topped by the familiar biker jacket decorated with chunky zips at all angles that matched the titanium ring on his forefinger. He only needed a scarf wrapped under his cleft chin to look like he stepped out of a clothing catalog, and yet none of it quite seemed to fit him, like it was an affectation or costume, or he was trying a personality on for size, including emotions. “Yeah. Okay," Dean relented. “But we’re stopping by that shop first.”

“Do you really think a confrontation is a good idea?” Castiel’s objection was laced with only a hint of sarcasm.

“Castiel, you just told me my brother is dying,” Dean said, and rushed the next words out past the lump in his throat. “There might not be time for talking.”

Castiel swept a hand through his hair and Dean knew he’d won. Collecting the helmet he’d discarded on the counter, Castiel pulled his gloves and sunglasses from the cavity and threw it to Dean. “Let me take the lead, alright Winchester?” he said, exasperated.

“Fine.”

Dean let him past, locking the door before following Castiel down to his bike, mounting it behind his hips and gripping a handful of leather into each palm. “Seventh street?” Castiel asked. Dean confirmed with a hum and with a lurch, they were off.

When Castiel pulled the bike up to the curb a few yards from the storefront, Dean’s fingers were cramping from being locked in place as they blasted through the spring air. He took off the helmet and slung it over the handlebar so he could blow on his knuckles. “Remind me to get you some gloves and another lid at our place, if this is going to become a habit,” Castiel noted. Dean was slightly affronted at the assumption but he didn’t let the feeling catch hold, his attention moving to the shut-up shop just as it had been on Friday.

His heart sank so he turned to anger instead. Marching up to the door he banged on it three times with a fist, then tried to peer past the blind pulled behind the glass. All he saw was blackness, the same when he tried the large window to his right.

“Dean!” Cas admonished, jogging up behind him. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything here.” Dean ignored his hoarse protest and pounded on the door again. Then he had an idea.

“This way,” he said, looking up and down the street and hastily choosing a direction. Around the corner he found the alleyway, not bothering to check if Castiel followed before he ducked down it to locate what he was looking for. Picking which of the three rear doors belonged to the junk shop, this time he didn’t bother knocking before jiggling the handle and testing the lock. It held fast despite looking loose and worn, though the wood housing it looked brittle enough that some force should work.

“Wait!” Castiel barked behind him, just as he stepped back to line up his shoulder above the handle, ready to shunt. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like, genius? We need clues, right?” he argued, preparing for the impact.

“Wait,” the other boy said again, this time full of sufferance. Moving in face to face he pushed his glasses into his hair, Dean getting a sudden tract of blue only a few inches away, his mind blanking from the proximity. “Let me try,” Castiel murmured.

Dean took a step back and Castiel squatted to inspect the lock. Then he placed a hand delicately on the peeling paint under the handle and closed his eyes. Nothing seemed to happen, Castiel’s brows knitting closer as he concentrated. But then, finally, Dean heard a click.

Castiel rose to stand again, wiping his hands on the rear of his jeans. The look he cast Dean didn’t hold a trace of smugness as he turned the handle and pulled it open. Instead, Castiel looked self-conscious despite the color having leached from his cheeks. “Shall we?” Castiel asked, then slipped through into the dark.

Moving cautiously, Dean followed Castiel through a bare store room and past an office, being careful to not make a sound. Then they tried the door into the store, the air on the other side stuffy and thick with humidity and dust. It was clear that no one had been inside for several days.

“This place is weird,” Castiel remarked, tracing a fingertip through the grime on one of the shelves.

“You’re one to talk,” Dean mumbled. He doubled back to the counter and began to rummage in the drawers, looking for anything that might help him find the shop’s owner.

“Meaning?”

“Nevermind,” Dean replied, flashing Castiel a tight grin. “I can’t see anything. Gonna try the office.”

He heard Castiel walking behind him as he retraced their steps and entered the tiny dim room in the back corner of the store. The office was spartan, housing only a heavy wooden desk and creaking office chair. Dean sat and flipped on the lamp, an old brass shaded light straight out of a Hitchcock movie, then sifted through the contents.

“What are you even looking for?” Castiel asked.

“I’ll take anything at this point,” Dean replied, squinting into the rear of the deep filing drawer. There were a few papers—wrinkled consignment notes mostly, but not a thing with an address or phone number, or even a full name. That is if this guy, this _thing_ , even had somewhere he lived. “I guess it would be too easy to find a bill or something,” he said, giving up on the desk revealing any secrets.

“Who has paper invoices these days?” Castiel observed.

“Hmm.” Dean’s sigh was resigned.

Castiel looked over his shoulder. “I’d like to get out of here if it’s all the same to you.”

Dean gave him a direct look. “You can’t tell anything from being here?” he asked, waving his fingers in the air.

“I’m not a psychic medium, Winchester,” Castiel replied with one of the melodramatic rolls of his eyes Dean was becoming acquainted with.

“Dude, how do I know? You’re not exactly an open book.”

Castiel raised a brow. “You’re one to talk,” he parroted back to Dean, who casually flipped him off in return. “Are you done? I can’t afford to get arrested again.”

This time it was Dean who raised an eyebrow, but he let it slide. For now. “Sure. This place gives me the heebies anyway.”

Together they made their way out back into the sun, shutting the door carefully, Dean taking an extra moment to wipe it for fingerprints.

“You know what you’re doing,” Castiel said.

Dean frowned. “I’m not an idiot. I watch TV.”

“Some would say those two statements are mutually exclusive.”

Dean stopped just short of the sidewalk. “Are you always like this, Novak?” he asked.

“Like what?” Castiel dropped his sunglasses onto his nose so Dean couldn’t tell if the twitch at the corner of his mouth was a sneer or a smile.

“So, we going to yours or what?”

This time, Castiel did smile ruefully at the change of subject. “Yes. I think it’s our best recourse.”

“Our?”

Castiel rolled his shoulders and set off. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, Winchester,” he called back as Dean hurried to catch up before they reached the bike. When they did, Dean slid behind Castiel with practiced ease, the movement beginning to feel natural. Fastening the helmet, Castiel asked Dean if he was ready.

“Go,” Dean replied, and they did, doubling back down the street and out towards the suburbs where the Novak house lay on the edge, the motorbike humming beneath them as they flew. The gate at the end of the long driveway was just completing its opening arc as they turned in and after Castiel’s display at the shop, Dean caught himself wondering if the timing was by remote or something less prosaic, like how Castiel had jimmied the lock. He’d purposely avoided thinking about what Castiel had done when they were there, but by the time they’d pulled to a halt at the foot of the steps, Dean was burning with questions.

He wasn’t about to ask any of them, however.

“I apologize in advance for anything Naomi or Margaret choose to say,” Castiel said as Dean shook his hair free from the helmet.

It was the first time he’d heard anyone refer to old Mrs. Novak by name. “Noted,” Dean replied. Castiel’s hair was flat on one side and sticking out in all directions on the other from the wind and Dean couldn’t help a smirk. Castiel noticed, peeling off his gloves to rake his fingers through it ineffectually. Dean pretended not to pay attention, taking the chance to check his phone for any news.

 **Sam admitted. Waiting for tests** a text from his father read. Dean held off replying, not having anything to reply with. Nothing that could help his brother.

“Let’s go,” Castiel prompted and led them up to the door. It pulled open just as Castiel reached for the knob.

“Dean! Hello. How nice to see you again so soon,” Castiel’s mother said, her painted smile bright.

“Hi, Mrs. Novak.”

“Ms," she corrected, "and it’s Naomi, remember?” She ushered them into the entryway. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Castiel spoke for him. “This isn’t a social visit, I’m afraid. We need to talk. Also hello, Mother,” he added pointedly.

“Hello, dear,” she countered with exaggerated politeness, latching the door and moving ahead. “You’d better come through.”

After he and Castiel and divested themselves of their coats and hung them up, Dean found himself being led into the bowels of the strange house full of stranger people for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Arriving in the large living area again, Castiel’s mother motioned for Dean to take a seat, this time in one of the several long sofas squaring off on a wide Persian carpet. “Castiel, will you fetch yourself and Dean a drink,” Naomi suggested just as her son had lined himself with an adjoining armchair.

With a flourish, he adjusted his center of gravity and spun towards the kitchen. “Yes, Mama!” he intoned as if he was being sent to the front line.

“He can be so dramatic,” she said furtively to Dean, making him glance slyly at Castiel’s disappearing form. The Castiel he knew from before yesterday was anything but given to drama or exaggeration. But then, before yesterday Cas wasn’t a lot of things.

Naomi was just taking a seat on the facing couch when Castiel’s grandmother appeared through a door on the opposite side of the room. “Ah, Mr. Winchester! Did I not say you’d be back?”

Something about the older woman made a war break out in Dean’s instincts. A buried, primal voice shouted to run, but it was overruled by the whispers that had him intrigued and captivated. He liked her, with her glinting eyes and bowed smile, and he knew it was in spite of his gut’s judgment.

“I guess you were right, Ma’am,” he admitted to her as she sat next to Naomi. Today she matched her grandson, all in black, a dress that flowed from her slight shoulders all the way to the floor.

“I am seldom wrong, it’s true,” she agreed.

“Here you are,” said Castiel, depositing two full glass tumblers on the small table near Dean’s elbow. “Homemade lemonade, from our own lemons no less, though I can’t claim to have done the squeezing.” Castiel made a second attempt at flopping in the chair, this time managing to sprawl at an angle with one leg hooked over the rolled arm.

“Uh, thanks,” Dean replied, bemused at Castiel’s demeanor, the air of brattiness he carried around his family heightened by what looked to Dean like anxiety as he watched Castiel fidget with one of the seams of his jeans.

“So, boys,” Naomi began, clapping her hands together in expectation. “What did you wish to discuss?” Dean cast another glance at Castiel and willed him to initiate the conversation, but he stayed frustratingly silent and sullen.

Dean cleared the frog in his throat. “I was hoping for your help. Or advice—both, if possible.”

“Oh, well. We’ll do what we can, of course. Although I’m not sure—”

“He knows, Mother,” Castiel interrupted.

The women alternated looks between each of the boys, Naomi’s flickering gaze cautious. “He knows what, Castiel?” the older women asked, her drawl masking the sharpness in the question.

“Not a lot. But I was right; he recognized me, with far more precision that I was expecting. So I told him we three were alike.” The two ladies exchanged a loaded glance but outwardly showed no shock or animosity at being revealed in their own home.

“You were right?” Dean queried.

“You look at me differently,” Castiel supplied unhelpfully.

“I do?”

Naomi interjected to explain on her son’s behalf. “Castiel mentioned to us some time ago that he thought a boy at school—you, Dean—had seen through some of the veils we wear. It happens occasionally, with people such as yourself.”

Dean’s spine tensed. “People like me...what?” he asked, bewildered and wary.

This time it was the older woman who answered. “You’re what we commonly call a Sensitive, Mr. Winchester. People who have a unique window into the beyond, though not all who do are aware of it. Few are, in fact, and fewer still understand it.” Dean flushed, but with a feeling that didn’t resemble embarrassment.

He tried to listen to Castiel’s mother continue over the sound of blood rushing past his ears. “When Castiel came home one day and told us he thought you ‘knew’ him, we weren’t concerned. In fact, we were hopeful that he’d found someone he might...connect with.”

“Mother,” Castiel warned.

“Not necessarily like _that_ ,” Naomi qualified.

“Oh God,” Castiel exclaimed, covering his face with a forearm, though Dean had only passing sympathy for their equal humiliation at Naomi’s inference since he was dealing with a moderate existential crisis of his own.

A lengthy silence stretched. Dean focused out of his thoughts to find three pairs of eyes staring at him. “He ‘senses’ things,” Castiel explained for him, complete with air quotes. “So he wasn’t unaware.”

Castiel’s grandmother took the invitation. “You sense what, dear?”

Dean’s mouth was dry. He’d never talked about his experiences before today, not to anyone. He’d barely even acknowledged it to himself. “Excuse me,” he said, then took a long sip of lemonade before describing one of his most private secrets. “Uh, I’ve always had...visions, I guess? Though they’re more a feeling; when certain things have happened I’ve had a warning.”

“Fascinating. True precognition is rare,” Margaret reflected, though more to herself than Dean.

“And I did know Cas was different. But I didn’t know how. And I, um—I thought I’d seen some things, when he was around. But I didn’t know for sure.”

“Castiel,” his mother chided gently.

Castiel shrugged. “I get bored sometimes, Mother.” Naomi rolled her eyes and Dean saw exactly where Cas acquired his propensity from. “He also recognized it when his brother was marked,” the boy added.

Both women’s faces fell. “Pardon?” Naomi said.

“That’s why I brought him here. His brother has been marked as prey. I thought one of you might be able to find out by what, though I suspect the poor kid’s done for.”

“Jesus,” Dean exclaimed under his breath. “Sam. His name’s Sam, Cas!”

“Castiel!” Naomi said again, harshly this time. “I apologize Dean. Sometimes Castiel has a long way to come back.” Dean didn’t know what she meant. He was still stuck on Cas being a dick.

“I can do my own apologizing, Naomi,” Castiel retaliated, eyes hard as stone. Then without warning, he launched out of the generous armchair and stomped out of the room.

“He’ll return soon enough,” Castiel’s grandmother said, casting a look at Naomi’s face, clouded with a delicate kind of anguish. “It’s a long story, but we nearly lost him, and it’s taken time for him to repair himself.” Dean nodded. Nothing this family said made particular sense, but he just couldn't afford the distraction of piecing it together. Thankfully, the older woman prompted him forward. “Can you tell us what’s happened, Dean?” she invited kindly. “You had better start from the beginning.”

So Dean did, repeating the story for the second time that afternoon. This time, he went into more detail guided by the women asking questions about the sequence of events, and his minute impressions of what was happening to Sam. Halfway through, Castiel wandered back into the room, followed by the cat who leaped into his lap as soon as he resumed his place in the chair. He stayed silent, up until Dean talked about how they’d witnessed Sam’s seizures and John whisking him away to the hospital.

“We went snooping at the store on the way here,” Castiel piped up. “Dean wanted to try finding this man, or whatever he is, but there was nothing useful. Not that Dean knows what to do with him if we find him. Or myself, for that matter.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Dean said, matter-of-factly, Castiel looked at him sharply, but he didn’t care. “I may not know much, but I do know he shouldn’t exist. And I’m going to end him, whatever happens to Sam.” He looked down at his hands, watching as the dark indentations from his nails in his palms became pink again after relaxing them from the fists he’d unconsciously made.

“I see,” said Castiel’s grandmother, looking at Dean with something akin to admiration on her faintly lined face. “You are intriguing, Mr. Winchester, and I’m sorry you find yourself in this position. We’ll help, of course.”

Dean’s breath rushed out in a whoosh of relief, so much that he inexplicably had to bat back tears. “Thank you, Ma’am,” he said, swallowing roughly.

“Did the name mean anything to you, Margaret?” Castiel asked.

“What name?”

“Did Dean not say?”

“Azazel,” Dean interrupted. “His name was Azazel.”

The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “Azazel,” she repeated to herself thoughtfully, stroking the long chain around her neck from which a large inscribed amulet hung. “And he gave this to you freely?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Well. He certainly is full of himself, isn’t he? Let us hope that is the first mistake of many.”

“Does it mean anything to you?” Castiel asked her.

She tilted her head, just like Cas was fond of doing. “I’m not sure, but it may be familiar.” She shuffled to the edge of her seat and levered herself up. “Let me make some quick inquiries,” she added and glided out of the room from the door she’d entered, leaving the three of them in a silence so complete Dean heard the purr of the cat happily ensconced on Castiel’s slouching stomach.

“Do you have any questions, Dean?” Naomi asked. “I’m sure you must.”

“Questions?” he repeated dumbly, feeling wrung out despite his jittery impatience.

Castiel’s mother shifted her legs and recrossed them in the opposite direction. “About us, I mean. We’ve plied you with questions, but I’m sure you have some of your own.”

Dean lifted a hand to his neck and rubbed it nervously. “Sure, um—.” He had many, but it seemed impolite to ask them.

“He called me a witch, Mother,” Castiel interjected, still contemptuous.

A slow smile spread across her features. ‘Well, that’s one word for it I suppose,” she remarked, a withheld laugh coloring her voice. “It is a feminine kind of magic, though it’s innate. Generally, we do not have to cast spells and ask other entities for their aid. For the most part we are...conduits.”

Dean’s curiosity rose. “Cas said it’s a family thing?” he quizzed.

“Yes. It’s hereditary, though not guaranteed. It’s rare for a male to inherit our particular qualities. When they do, their existence is often short.”

Dean sat back at that, not knowing what to do with it. “You mean...it’s fatal?” he asked, risking a quick glance at Cas’s turbulent features.

“No. And yes. Darkness and conceit can be our undoing. We use and influence the elements through persuasion, but in doing so we open up pathways to being used ourselves. Without care and restraint, we can fall victim to greater forces, or our own inner conflicts. We don’t know why, but the males born as we are seem to be more...unstable, and vulnerable. Which is why it’s probably a good thing they’re rare.”

“It sounds sexist when you say it like that, Mother,” Castiel pointed out, but his voice was brittle.

“What is?” Castiel’s grandmother asked, walking up behind Naomi. Dean hadn’t even seen her enter the room again.

“Naomi was just explaining why being born into this club with the wrong chromosomes means a short, miserable life that threatens the very existence of those around them by virtue of their weaknesses,” Castiel answered theatrically.

“Nonsense,” Margaret replied. “We’ve already saved you. If I can keep to the right path, you can too.”

“Sorry?” Dean said, reaching his limit of cryptic explanations.

The older woman rounded the couch and resumed her seat. “Self-serving corruption is not just reserved for the men. I have spent half my life in atonement for my indiscretions. And we caught Castiel before he was unrecoverable.”

“I’m not a computer hard drive,” Castiel whined.

Margaret sighed, then steeled her gaze. “No, my dear. But you are my grandson and I am both partially responsible and have responsibilities to you, and to the world you inhabit. I see you, and therefore I know just how much I should be afraid for you, and of you.”

Castiel stared her down, his hand stilled on the cat’s back. Then he looked shyly at Dean. “Aren’t you glad you came by to learn all our dark family secrets,” he said, though this time it looked like he was the one who might shatter.

Dean gave him a watery smile. He didn’t know what to think. There was too much information to assimilate into his tilting world view, and not enough to make sense of any of it.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Margaret, said. “I am perhaps too attached to Castiel at times. His mother and I have both made mistakes with him, but I am guilty of projecting my own salvation on him, and he has to bear it all.”

“No problem, ma’am,” Dean replied, even though her apology was more directed at Castiel than himself.

“Enough of this ma’am business,” she said, waving a small hand as if dismissing a fly. “You have a place in this house, now. Call me Meg.”

The room settled, something exorcized from the conversation. “Now, I have some good news, and some bad,” the older woman continued, then digressed. “Naomi, can you make us some tea? I have an awful taste in my mouth.”

Dean’s ears pricked. “You found him?” Castiel asked urgently as his mother left for the kitchen.

“Not exactly. The name felt familiar because I had heard it before. It was just at a time I’d rather forget,” she explained pulling a face. “But I think I know what he is, at least approximately.”

“Is this the good or bad news?” Castiel said, and Dean resisted the urge kick him.

“Good-ish,” Meg replied. “He’s a cambion—or something like one. The malformed offspring of a type of demon who has outlived his time but somehow discovered a way of stealing the life-force of others. I think your brother was simply unlucky, in that regard.”

The blood in Dean’s veins turned to ice. He wasn’t prepared for hearing an explanation regardless of how much he’d needed one. “Can Sam be saved?” It was the only question that mattered.

“Maybe. If Castiel was right when he told you that he’s fighting by slowing the process. We have a few days, though my guess is not beyond the end of the week.”

“How?” Dean all but growled.

Naomi returned to the room and set down a tray on the ottoman between him and the old woman who proceeded to pour herself a cup, her hand shaking a little with the weight of the pot. “I believe if he’s marked himself by someone with power, he can be subdued in time to at least partially reverse his effect on your brother," she ventured, lifting the cup and saucer to her lap.

Adrenaline had Dean wanting to leap out of his seat then and there. “So you could do it? Or Cas?”

The smile she returned him was somber. “No, I’m afraid not. We could try, but he’d most likely recognize us instantly. It would make it near impossible to get close enough to him. Or he'd flee.”

As quick as that, Dean deflated again. “What, then?”

She took a sip of tea and straightened herself, smoothing the face of her dress. “If you had power yourself, you could utterly surprise him and then mark him as your own prey,” she said hesitantly.

Dean was baffled. “I don’t understand. I’m not like you.”

“Meg, no—” Castiel threatened, his grandmother glancing at him with eyes full of apology.

Naomi took over while her mother and son glowered at each other. “You not only have a window, Dean. Sensitives have varying strengths and receptivity. They can stand on the precipice of our world and need only to be invited over to join us.”

“You make it sound like a dinner party, mother,” Castiel accused bitterly. “We both know it’s not that simple or easy.”

“Dean is strong, Castiel. I could feel him the moment he walked into this house,” the white-haired woman argued, the light in the room suddenly reflecting off her hard edges.

“It could _kill_ him,” Castiel bellowed, sitting forward and evicting the cat, who looked glad to make an escape.

“Wait!” Dean interrupted the tension between the family, three glaciers threatening to slice into each other. “Can—uh, if someone could explain what is going on here, I’d appreciate it.”

Castiel took a deep, trembling inhale then turned his blanched face to Dean. “They’re talking about working a changeover, Winchester. They want to make you one of us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big shoutout to my Shellz my beta, for picking up my fumbles and incoherencies <3  
> She also encouraged me to go with my instinct to make Meg Cas's grandmother despite everyone else I asked echoing my worry that it was too odd a choice, which it may still be, but she was the only woman connected to Cas who was mischevious and ruthless, and flawed and dichotomous enough to fit the character I needed.


	8. A Proposition

 

Dean blinked and scanned the faces around him. The horror on Castiel’s face contrasted against Naomi’s detached scrutiny and the veiled excitement radiating from his grandmother.

He wasn’t stupid. It was clear there was more going on between these people and the proposal than he understood, but that paled next to the knowledge there was a way to save Sam.

“I'm in,” he said emphatically.

“Dean, no!”

He threw a defiant glance at Cas but instead of the outrage he expected, Castiel’s mouth was downturned with misery.

“They said it’s the only way, Cas.”

“There’s always another way, Winchester. This is madness.”

“Castiel, this is Dean’s decision,” Naomi defended.

“He doesn’t know what he’s deciding!” Dean opened his mouth to protest but Castiel drove on. “Dean, you might not survive this. Don't you have any sense of self-preservation?”

“If I don’t take a chance and Sam dies, how will I live with myself?” he argued back.

“Who’s going to help Sam if you’re dead? Or worse, a vegetable?’ Dean gaped while Cas fumed, the impasse walling up their tempers and setting them apart. Then Castiel shook his head and stood. “Clearly, there’s nothing else I can say,” he muttered to the floor at Dean’s feet. “I’ll be in my room. Find me if you come to your senses and want to go home.”

Dean watched as Castiel stalked past him and out of the double door for a second time, indignation carrying every stride. “Don’t worry,” Meg said calmly when he’d disappeared from view. “He’ll come around. He will have to if we are to perform the ceremony.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

The old woman cast her half-smile at him. “If it’s what you truly want, Dean, he will not stand in your way.”

Nodding, Dean tried to subdue his impatience and file his reactions, all the while the two witches watching him with feline quiescence. “So when can we do this, and what do I have to do?” he asked. Naomi looked to her mother and they exchanged a brief glance.

“Actually, tomorrow evening couldn’t be a better time. The moon will be full and spring is at its peak.” Meg replied warmly. “It will help your journey if you don’t eat for twelve hours or so beforehand, and we'll have to make some preparations ourselves. You will just need to come back to us before dusk with your intent sure and your mind settled. We can take care of the rest.”

“Yes, I suggest you go home and sleep on it, Dean. Make up your mind, fully and completely,” Castiel’s mother added.

“What Cas said, about maybe not surviving it. Is that true?”

“We won’t lie to you, Dean Winchester,” Naomi began, “there is always a chance. If you choose this path, you will be altering your being wholly and irreversibly. But you are in control all the way, and the outcome is dependent on you and you alone.”

Meg put her cup and saucer back down, the porcelain clinking elegantly, then knitted her hands in her lap. “As I said, you are strong—I suspect one of the strongest sensitives I’ve come across. You already inhabit a halfway house between the mundane world and ours. If we weren’t certain of your potential, we wouldn’t have recommended it.”

Chewing on his bottom lip, Dean’s brain began to spin like a ferris wheel. The women were right, he needed to get out of here and think everything through. He already felt like he’d walked into another world since the beginning of the conversation, one where the image of himself he thought immutable now had to be shed like a skin he could no longer live in. It was only the abrupt vibration of his phone in his pocket that stemmed the slowly congealing nausea caused by his listing selfhood.

“Excuse me,” he said upon checking the screen and seeing the call was from John. Standing, he swiped to take the call and drifted across the room towards the windows.

“Hey, Dad. How’s Sam?”

 _"Dean_ , _"_ John began, his voice thin and tired. _"Are you able to get your friend to drop you off here?"_

“Yeah, sure,” Dean answered confidently. He’d go even if he had to walk all the way.

 _"Good. I think you should spend some time with your brother,"_  John added ominously.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” he asked. Surely it wasn’t possible they were out of time already?

 _"They don’t know._ "John paused, clearing his throat with a cough. _"They ran some tests but he kept seizing, so they put him in an induced coma until they can run some more."_

“Dad—” Dean began but didn’t know what to say. 

There was a long silence while all he could hear was his pulse thudding past his ears. Then his father spoke softly.

_"They haven’t said much, but I can tell they don’t have a goddamn clue. I just—it would be good to have you here, Dean."_

Looking outside through one of the french doors, Dean swallowed down his fear as his eyes traveled the long stretch of lawn dotted with trees to where the river flowed in sparkling glimpses just beyond. Overreacting wouldn’t help any of them right now.  “Okay, sure. Do you need anything? From home?”

" _I’m fine. Maybe you can take the Impala and grab us some takeout once you’re here. Hospital food is shit."_

Dean could tell he was trying to smile at the other end of the line but sorrow was an all too recognizable note in his father’s voice. "I won’t be long,” he assured.

John ended the call without saying goodbye, Dean flipping his phone over and over in his hand while he took a long breath. There were no less than three unopened texts from Benny and one from his coach, but he didn’t bother opening any before pocketing it again and turning back to the room. Both women were standing, waiting for him to return.

“Uh, it is okay for Cas to take me to the hospital?” he asked, making his way across the richly hued carpet.

“Of course,” Naomi replied. “Shall I fetch him for you?”

“Nah, I’ll go talk to him,” Dean offered, knowing he needed to make Cas understand just how urgent and inevitable his decision would be. “One more question, though,” he added. “What happens after?”

“Your changeover?” Castiel’s grandmother seemed to stand taller as she spoke. Dean nodded. “We locate this Azazel and plan our attack, then show you what to do.”

“You can find him?”

An impish smirk spread across the older woman’s face. “I'm positive I can, yes. Although, since he's connected to Sam if we had something of your brother’s, something dear to him or that embodies him, it may help immensely.”

“I’ll get you something,” Dean said, knowing immediately what to choose. “I’ll go find Cas. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Naomi’s face relaxed with a maternal smile. “Get some sleep, dear. You’ll need your wits about you for what is to come.”

Taking his leave, Dean hurried to the top of the stairs before tentatively tapping on the closed door, unsure of what mood he was going to be met with. When the door opened, Castiel presented a picture of disarray: hair flattened and black tee half untucked, with no shoes on his feet. He’d never seen Cas’s feet before and his toes were as long and avian as his fingers.

“Hi,” he ventured. Castiel stood silent and wooden while his features ironed out. “I came to see if you’re still offering to give me a lift.”

“Does this mean you’ve made a rational decision?”

Something about the earnestness overtaking any sarcasm in the question made Dean dip his head to hide a puzzled smile, though he didn't have much in the way of reassurance to offer. “It means I’m taking the night to think about it. Your grandmother said tomorrow evening would be more auspicious, or something. The moon or whatever.”

“Whatever,” Castiel echoed with a grunt of disapproval. “You’re aggravatingly laissez-faire about this, Winchester.” Then he turned and walked to the couch, sitting and collecting his shoes from where they waited at the end. Dean meandered after him, veering instead towards the desk. “Don’t let old Meg talk you into it,” Castiel continued. “You do and will continue to have the option to say no, and she’ll have her own reasons for wanting you to say yes.”

“I figured that much already,” Dean replied, perching one rear cheek on the edge of the furniture. Then he asked a question he’d been wanting to ask all afternoon. “In town earlier, what you did with the door. That cost you, didn’t it?”

Castiel’s face tipped up from tying the left shoelace, his glance curious. Then he rose to his feet and approached, lifting a midnight-blue sweater from where it languished over the back of the office chair at Dean’s side. “I have to be very...careful,” he volunteered uneasily, pulling the garment over his head and finding the armholes. “Exercising only a limited amount of force sometimes requires the most effort.”

“Would I? Have to be careful, I mean?” Dean asked, purposely shying away from the boy's proximity, letting his gaze wander over the jumble of books and papers on the desk to avoid meeting Castiel’s.

“Not like I do,” the boy said, the sudden low, dark edge in his voice making him look up anyway. Castiel had slipped forward, his luminescent eyes much closer than Dean was expecting. “You’ll be different—you are different.

“Different how?” Dean murmured, transfixed by the deep cleft above the bow of his mouth. _I’m going to be kissed_ he thought, the prospect flashing like a neon sign as Castiel seemed to loom.

But then he wasn’t, and maybe it was a trick of the strangely shifting light. Dean let out a rush of breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

“To start with, you weren’t born an abomination and then left to your own devices,” Castiel replied, mouth twitching with a sardonic smile that honed rather than softened the bitter words. Appalled, Dean felt the admission like a physical hit, Cas’s name on the tip of his tongue along with futile consolations. But Castiel pulled away, planting his fingers in his back pockets with a forced sigh and signaling the moment was over.

Dean followed suit, leaning backward and letting his eyes fall away from the boy’s open wounds to land on the stack of paper behind his right arm, fixing on one poking askew from the pile. Giving it a tug, he pulled it out to find a large black and white photograph. The picture was taken at school of a group of kids sitting on the bleachers, but the focal point, indeed the only part of the image truly in focus was himself, chin in hand and grinning warmly at Benny while several of their friends laughed. It was candid and accidentally intimate, and looking at it made his brows shoot skyward.

“Sorry. Yearbook pictures—” Castiel mumbled unconvincingly. Dean risked a glance, the room’s owner looking contrite and profoundly uncomfortable for the first time since Dean had visited the house.

“I like it. Bit stalkery though.” Dean grinned at Castiel's whimpered groan, adding, “Next time just ask to take my pic,” accompanied by a brief dance of his eyebrows.

Castiel pressed his lips together so that the wry gleam in his eyes didn't reach them. “You’re impossible,” he observed. “Are you quite done? Don’t you need to go somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, his face falling as the reality of his day slammed back home after the short respite. “Dad wants me at the hospital.”

“Right. Let’s go then.”

He led them out and down the stairs, halting at the front door to retrieve their coats. Dean zipped up his khaki one while Castiel shrugged on his bike jacket, the leather molding to his broad shoulders. Then they returned to the motorbike, this time waiting with two helmets nested on the seat. “Got an extra out of the garage,” Castiel explained, passing the new one to Dean. A pair of gloves sat inside, so Dean pulled them painstakingly on once he’d fastened the black helmet in place. Lastly, Dean slid behind Castiel, and they set off.

By the time they reached the drop-off bay of Lawrence Memorial, the shadows were lengthening. Dean’s stomach rumbled, and he began to wonder if he shouldn’t have asked Castiel to stop for something for himself and John on the way. “Keep them, for now,” Castiel said when Dean tried to hand over the helmet and gloves.

Dean accepted without protest this time that he’d continue to be Castiel’s passenger for the foreseeable future. “Hey, thanks. You know, for everything,” he offered awkwardly once the bike’s owner had removed his own.

Castiel pulled an acerbic face. “For luring you to your potential doom, you mean? Sure, you’re entirely welcome.”

“Cas—”

“Sorry,” Castiel amended, scrunching his nose, then looked at him with a winking, injured stare. “Just promise me you really will think about this.”

“I will,” Dean promised automatically.

“I know my life may seem irresistible and alluring, Winchester. But there are costs. There’s always a caveat.”

Dean couldn’t untwist the ever-present mockery from the truth in Castiel’s warning. Then a thought occurred to him. “Cas, if I do this, is there a risk to you? To you all?”

The wince in Castiel’s expression was slight, but not enough to escape Dean’s notice. Eventually, the boy answered. “Yes, but it’s minor compared to the risks to you,” he hedged, then frowned at whatever he saw in Dean’s face. “That is our choice, Dean. You don’t need to be responsible for that. Only your own,” he said sternly.

“Okay,” Dean placated, stowing away the further food for consideration. He really did need some time to come to grips with everything the day had revealed. “Oh, hey,” he added, pulling his phone out and bringing up a new contact, commanding “add your number,” as he handed the device to Castiel. The boy prised off one glove with his teeth and began typing, but then when he handed the phone back their index fingers brushed, Castiel jerking his hand back like it had been burned.

“I’ll call you,” he said, watching curiously as Castiel retreated into the helmet and replaced the glove.

Dean searched the unsettled eyes, all but hidden in the cave of the headgear, but then the bike was kicked into action and the visor flipped, shutting Dean out. He was issued with a careless salute and left on the sidewalk as Castiel noisily accelerated away, leaving him no choice but to turn and let himself be swallowed by the giant sliding door of the hospital.

 

 

After being directed to Sam’s room on the second floor Dean pulled up short in the doorway, unprepared for the sight of his brother unconscious and attached to various machinery as if he’d become part of the hospital itself.  He took a moment to steady himself, the sensation of lurching reality hitting him again along with the faint rancid smell of Sam’s possession snaking into his nostrils.

His father sat in a chair on the other side of the bed, cheek resting on one loose fist while he dozed, so Dean set the helmet down beside the closest chair and took a seat. Hesitantly, he stretched out a hand to take Sam’s, the familiarity of it nearly breaking the wall inside keeping his fears contained; it felt lifeless, cool and malleable and small curled inside Dean’s dry palm. The rest of Sam looked the same as he did earlier, for which Dean didn’t know whether to be grateful or not. He didn’t look worse, and the taut lines of stress were gone from his face now that he was sleeping, albeit unnaturally.

“Sammy,” he whispered. “I’m here. You sleep tight okay? You’re safe right now.” The lack of response left him hollow, even though it was absolutely expected. The feeling of _wrong_ lay like a blanket over the room and made it feel airless, although maybe that was just the overly-warm hospital atmosphere.

“Dean,” John murmured, coming to. He scrubbed a palm over his face. “How long you been here?”

“Just a few minutes, Dad.”

“Hello, there!” said a bright voice behind him. Dean looked over his shoulder to see a doctor walking forward with her hand out. “I’m Doctor Barnes. You must be Dean.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean replied, shaking her hand.

“Hi Dean, I’m Pamela, the doctor treating your brother today.” She let go of his hand and addressed John, her long dark hair bouncing in waves across her shoulders. “How are we doing? Any changes?” Then without waiting for an answer she picked up the chart from the end of the bed and gave it a once-over.

“No, nothing,” John said, his voice scratchy.

“Good. We want to see him resting. We should have the next round of pathology back soon. Now, Dean,” she said breezily, “have you been brought up to speed? Any questions?”

Dean opened his mouth without words prepared, but his father spoke for him. “He’s only just arrived. I haven’t told him anything yet.”

“Told me what?” Dean asked, looking between the adults while his heart plummeted for the umpteenth time that day.

“As you know, your brother arrived here with your father earlier this afternoon,” the doctor began to catalog. “You, I believe, witnessed several seizures following a period of him feeling unwell, and he suffered several more upon arrival during the time he was admitted. They were becoming more frequent and prolonged in length, so an hour or so ago we decided to take the step to sedate him. Mainly to try and allow his brain some rest, and so that we can schedule a scan along with the pathology tests we’re running. We’re monitoring him very closely while we try to figure out what’s going on,” she finished kindly.

 _I know what’s going on_ Dean said to himself, or maybe under his breath because John gnarled his name in reproach.

“Pardon?” said Dr. Barnes.

“Dean thinks Sam’s illness started with a stamp that a shopkeeper put on his hand,” John explained reluctantly.

The doctor looked at Dean. “You thought it might be what...a toxin?”

“Something like that,” Dean admitted.

“Well, we are running a number of tests so we should pick up anything unusual. I don't want to speculate until we have a better picture, but it’s important for you to know we’re doing all we can to treat your brother's symptoms while we pin down the cause.”

Dean gave her a weak smile and squeezed Sam’s hand, hoping he couldn’t hear any of this and that he was peacefully basking in some dream space, far away. It was then that the barely-there smell of Azazel sharpened, making Dean glance at Sam’s face. He looked exactly the same except that his eyelids began to pulse, the spheres behind them moving rapidly.

“What’s happening?” he asked tightly.

The doctor shuffled past John and held Sam’s other wrist, checking his pulse for a few seconds before tracing the IV lines suspended from the pole next to the head of the bed, checking everything was in order. “Another seizure. We may have to adjust the sedative,” she advised once the movement stopped, before shooting Dean an intense look. “Did you know he was going to do that?” she asked shrewdly.

Beyond caring how he might seem, Dean told the truth. “I smelled it, yeah.”

“You smelled it?”

“Ever since he started to get sick, he’s had this weird smell that nobody else seems to notice.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Kind of sweet? Too sweet?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact,” he replied, floored.

“Fascinating. I thought it was just me.” She looked down at Sam, pensively hooking a finger under her chin. “Let me go chase up those results and I’ll write up an adjustment to the sedative we have him on. If you’re concerned about anything, buzz the nurse, alright?” Then she shuffled past the end of the bed and out of the room again, her heeled boots clipping on the polished floor all the way down the corridor.

Dean met his father’s eyes over the bed. “They don’t have anything they can do for him, do they,” he noted flatly.

John shook his head. “They’re not saying anything right now, but give them time, Dean.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Dean said miserably.

“What for, son?”

“I dunno, I just—” he shrugged, not knowing what to say and having too many feelingswelling up and leaking out like an overflowing sewer system. Somewhere inside he’d still hoped standard medicine could still help Sam, keep him alive at least until they could find and kill Azazel. But he had no way of knowing how much time either he or Sam had.

 _I could have prevented it all_ he thought, grimly recounting the warning he’d been granted, and how helpless he’d felt in that shop. He never wanted to feel helpless like that again and maybe, after tomorrow, he wouldn’t.

“Dean, when was the last time you ate?”

Dean surfaced from his thoughts and looked at his watch, taken aback that it was coming up to seven thirty. “Uh, lunch, I guess?”

John fished in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, choosing a stash of notes and reaching to hand them to Dean. “Me neither. How about you just go find the cafeteria and see if they have anything left for the both of us?”

“Sure,” he said, unfurling from the vinyl chair. Now he was here the impulse to stay by Sam’s side fought with his instinct to flee, run from everything so malevolent and badly askew about being in the room.

Once outside the door, his empty stomach made the choice easier for him. Getting directions at the nurses' station, he found his way to the cafeteria on the lower floor and while it had already closed for the day, he managed to appeal to the staff clearing out the kitchen to swap a couple of sandwich packs from the refrigerator for a decent tip. Collecting two cokes from the vending machine next to the elevators, he arrived back and handed the meager spoils to his father along with the leftover change.

“The doc stopped by while you were gone,” John said.

“And?”

“Tests were ‘inconclusive’. She’s ordering some more.”

Dean shrugged, unsurprised, and tucked into the old beef sandwich, so hungry he barely noticed the dry corners of the bread. They were just finishing up when a nurse strolled in, taking Sam’s vitals and swapping over one of the bags on the pole, then writing notes on his chart before leaving again without a word.

The silence stretched, thrown into relief by the background hum of the hospital: machine beeps and trolleys accompanied by shuffling feet and muted voices from the corridor. When his father finally spoke, his gravel in his voice seemed way too loud for the space.

“Last time I was here was when your mother—before she—” John began, unable to bring his observation to a conclusion. Over seven years later and he still could barely mention Mary. Although, maybe Dean might not be able to either if he’d been allowed to see his mother, mangled from the car wreck and fighting to survive for three days, John keeping vigil through surgeries and at her bedside while Dean and miraculously unharmed baby Sam were looked after by Missouri.

Dean had the luxury of remembering her as he always will; blonde hair and sun-kissed skin and the smile she parted from them with that morning.

“Dad—”

“No, Dean, I need to tell you.” John rubbed one cheek, then fixed Dean with a haunted look. “I haven’t always been around in the way you boys needed, and I’m sorry for that.”  All but squirming in the slippery chair, he wanted to tell his father to stop. He was all out of emotional real estate to spare, but there was no way he could make the words come out before John continued his speech. “I’ve leaned on you, Dean, too much at times, but it’s always because I thought you could handle it—and you do. But I know it’s not always fair.”

“It is what it is, Dad,” he countered. “I’m doing okay."

“You are, Dean,” John confirmed, a hint of warmth back in his eyes as he tried a worn smile. “But I need to do better with Sammy. This kid, he has potential. I don’t wanna see that light fade out.”

Looking away, Dean tried not to let the inferences in his father’s words seep further into his cracks. Sam had always been smart, ever since he was four and could read every picture book in the library, Dean knew that, like he knew his father’s mind was full of thoughts of Sam right now.

“Here,” John said. Dean forced his glassy eyes up to see him holding out his keys. “Take the car home and get some sleep.”

“What about you?”

“I can stay. I’m better off here,” assured John. “Just get some rest, and I’ll call you if there’s any change.” Dean stood and took the keyring, this time eager to get out of the suffocating room. It’s not like he could do anything for Sam here anyway. “Just bring me back a change of clothes in the morning.”

Dean nodded agreement. “Night, Dad,” he said, then stepped to lean over his brother’s sleeping form. “Hang in there, bud,” he whispered against Sam’s temple before landing a quick dry kiss at his hairline.

Once home, the house was eerie at night without all its usual occupants. Grabbing some water and an apple from the fridge, he collected the remote and flopped on the couch to let his eyes glaze over, the color and movement on the screen barely registering as he zoned out. After half an hour he flicked the TV off again, brushed his teeth and sunk between his sheets, then shot off a text to Benny to tell him he wouldn’t be around tomorrow and to keep Dean posted if there was anything he should know from the classes they shared. Lastly, he turned out the light, thinking sleep would take him easily.

Sleep, it turned out, was determined to elude him, the dark allowing for his mind to swirl with color and snatches of the past few day's events. Visions of his critically ill little brother tangled with conversations between the strangely enchanting Novak women, smeared with red-raw vengeance that surged through his veins whenever he allowed the memory of Azazel to intrude. He tried to suppress those particular feelings, knowing that he couldn’t rationally evaluate the offer the women had made him while his fears ruthlessly teamed with the desire to retaliate. Maybe, just maybe this was his potential, he reasoned, the only true potential he could fulfill—and if it wasn’t, at least he could say he tried. If he lived.

Scrabbling for his phone, he pulled up the contacts menu to locate Castiel’s entry and typed out a simple text.

_**Will you hate me if I say yes?** _

A minute later the reply popped up in his notifications:

**Probably no more than I already do, Winchester.**

Dean rolled his eyes to himself. He shouldn't have expected a helpful answer given Cas's unreliable insistence he doesn't 'do' feelings.

Putting his mobile back on the bedside, he punched his pillow into shape and tried closing his eyes once more. Mercifully, he felt increasingly drowsy even though his overactive mind shifted to reflect on the elusive, insidious charm of the boy who, for all his prickly jibes and disconcerting disconnect—not to mention the latent, alarming abilities he seemed to possess—Dean still found himself inexorably intrigued by. Before he fell asleep, Dean's awareness wafted back to those few moments he thought Castiel might close the gap and kiss him and realized that he hadn't, even for a split second, considered avoiding it.

 


	9. Castiel

 

 

“No,” Dean whispered, standing in the doorway to Sam’s empty room. “No no NO.”

He'd woken when John had sent him a text just after six, asking to bring him a fresh shirt and toothbrush and include his own school gear when he stopped at the hospital. To say Dean was initially unimpressed that his father seemed to expect him to go to school was an understatement, but on second thought he surmised it may be preferable to sitting in the hospital dwelling on the choices that lay before him. He’d arrived at the hospital just on 8 o’clock and headed up to the second floor, the hallways busy with orderlies collecting breakfast trays or moving patients, and doctors doing their rounds. But his stomach had plummeted when he’d reached Sam’s room near the end of the long corridor. Something wasn’t right.

Scurrying back to the nurse's station he tried to grab someone’s attention, finally catching the eye of a young brunette in cheerful yellow scrubs.

“Can I help you?”

“My brother—he was in room 209 but he’s gone. What’s happened to him?” Dean asked urgently.

“I just started my shift, but let me find out,” she smiled. “Name?”

“Dean,” he said at first, then corrected himself. “I’m Dean, his name’s Sam, Sam Winchester. My father should be here too, somewhere."

“Just a moment, Dean,” the nurse replied kindly. She glided to the other side of the desk where another sat at a computer and began talking while the older nurse typed at the keyboard. Then she returned with a grave look on her face. “He’s been transferred to the ICU.”

“When? Why?!”

“Just in the last half an hour, I understand. You’ll be able to find out more up there.”

“Where do I go?”

“Up on the fourth floor, to the right. An orderly will bring up anything from the room shortly.”

Dean departed with a tight ‘thanks’ and paced back to the elevator, impatiently enduring the ride and long corridor to the intensive care ward.

“Sam Winchester?” he panted when he'd loped up to the desk. “Is he here? I’m his brother.”

“Dean,” he heard to his right, his father appearing from around the corner and motioning him to the side of the reception area.

“Dad! What happened? Is Sam—”

“He’s okay, Dean. They took him for an early scan and he had another seizure. A bad one, despite the drugs, so they transferred him here.”

Dean tried to read between the lines. “He doesn’t sound okay, Dad. What’s wrong?”

“They’re looking into it, son. The doc said she's trying some different medication first.”

“Can I see him?” Dean asked.

John sighed heavily. “Not right now. They said they’d tell me when I can go back in.” His father reached out to cup Dean’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You ready for school?”

“Dad, you can’t expect—”

“Dean! You need to go. We don’t—” John paused to look Dean in the eye, then reigned in his voice. “We don’t know what will happen this week, and you can’t risk getting behind so late in the semester.”

“Dad, it’s Sam!”

“I know, Dean. But you’re better off not waiting around here.”

Dean choked down his distress. There’s wasn’t much point in arguing. “Fine,” he conceded.

“You can take the car if—”

“Mr. Winchester?” came a voice from behind Dean.

“Yes?”

“Here are the personal items from downstairs.” Dean turned to see a man in blue hospital scrubs carrying a plastic bag in one hand, Sam’s blanket spilling out from the top. In the other hung the helmet Dean had left, forgotten, in Sam’s room last night.

“Thank you,” John said, taking the bag. Dean relieved the orderly of the helmet, the gloves still nestled inside.

Thinking quickly, Dean countered his father’s offer. “You keep the car, Dad. I’ll get Cas to pick me up on his way to school.”

Thrown, John frowned but agreed. “If that’s what you want. I’ll call you if there’s anything you need to know, okay son?”

“Sure, Dad. Oh, and here,” Dean said, handing John the car keys. Then he dropped his shoulder to offload the small backpack he had slung there along with his school one, carrying his father’s change of clothes. He probably should have packed a razor, the stubble on John’s cheeks lengthening.

“Thanks, kid. Maybe I’ll be able to grab a shower.”

Then, Dean remembered. “Oh, hey, can I, uh—can I take this?” he asked, fishing Wroof from where the toy was stuff in the bag beside the blanket.

John gave him a sideways stare. “I guess Sam doesn’t need it right now,” he said, clearly still puzzled but not enough to quiz Dean. Dean looked down at the stuffed animal, hoping Meg wouldn’t need to damage it for whatever plan she had. Sam would need the toy when he woke up.

“I better go.”

His father clapped him on the shoulder again, then surprised him by drawing him into a hug. “Take care, Dean.”

“‘Course, Dad,” Dean replied, awkwardly returning the embrace with his free arm, then walking away before he had to see the fear in John’s eyes again.

 

Down in the lobby, Dean got out his phone and pulled up Cas’s number, but changed his mind mid-message. Checking the bus time table instead, he decided he’d rather take the fifteen-minute commute than face Castiel's enigmatic and mercurial quirks when he hadn't taken the time to have caffeine. It was only then he remembered that if he was going back to the Novak house tonight, he wouldn't be able to have food for the rest of the day and his stomach immediately let out a gurgle of dissatisfaction. “Great,” he muttered to himself, then flirted with the idea of cutting school altogether and going home. But, John had ordered him to school specifically and the last thing he wanted was the administration phoning his father to question his absence.

The bus stopped a few hundred yards from the school gate and by the time Dean was walking up to the main steps, Cas's bike was parked to one side with no sign of the boy.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you,” Benny called when Dean strolled up to his locker, a couple of yards away from his friend's.

Dean spun his combination and brushed aside any lingering resentment. “Yeah, Dad decided I needed to come to school, so here I am.”

Benny slammed the door shut and walked over. “Shit. How’s Sammy?”

“Not doing so good. Neither is my Dad, so I think I’d rather be here,” he admitted, swapping out his english text for his first-period human biology book.

“That’s rough man, I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do, lemme know.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think—” Dean stopped mid-sentence, a thought occurring, “—actually, there is something.”

“Name it,” his friend said.

“If anyone asks, can you tell them I’m with you after school?”

“Sure.” Benny pursed his lips. “Should I know what you’re actually doing?” he quizzed, speculatively eyeing the helmet Dean still clutched in one hand.

Obscuring his face behind the metal door, Dean managed to just squeeze the helmet in and out of further view. He didn’t want to lie to his best friend but he could hardly tell him he was likely going to ditch spending the evening with his dad watching his dying brother in favor of going to the Novak house to undergo some life-threatening conversion endowing him with supernatural abilities in order to go fight a parasite posing as a person. His brain just about shorted out thinking about how it all could even be remotely real and happening to him: a painfully average seventeen-year-old standing in the utterly mundane hallway of a high school in nowhere, USA. “Just something I gotta do,” he ended up saying, closing the door with a clang and wincing with an unspoken apology.

Benny simply gave him a nod then knocked him on the arm with the flat of his fist. “Whatever you say. Catch ya in trig?” Benny set off, only to turn on his heel. “Hey, sorry about bailing on you the other night.” Dean gave him a blank look. “The party?”

“Oh.” Friday night seemed like half a lifetime ago, not four days. “No big. I didn’t stick around either—found a ride home.”

“I heard.” Benny flicked his brows and left with a grin.

 _Fuck_ , Dean thought, simultaneously wanting and fearing to know what rumors were going around. There were days he couldn’t wait to get out of Lawrence and be anonymous, but at the same time whenever he tried to envision his future his brain couldn’t pull together anything beyond a few fuzzy, incoherent intentions. It was only when he turned in the opposite direction that he saw Cas paused in the middle of the stream of students where two halls met, looking at him inquisitively. No doubt surprised to see him too, Dean thought, giving him an awkward, aborted wave before moving on.

Sitting through his first science class was hard enough, his thoughts replaying his father’s lined face and fretful eyes at Sam's continued deterioration, but by halfway through his fourth period with his empty stomach adding to his inattention at whatever the teacher was saying in his Government class, Dean was silently climbing the walls.

As he finally walked out the door and turned to head in the direction of the cafeteria, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

 **Sam stable. No news** the text from John read.

Dean dithered in the hallway over replying, then pulled up Castiel’s number instead.

 ** _Wanna get out of here?_   **he typed. The thought of sitting through the social politics of the lunch hour and then afternoon classes was too much to bear.

 **Is that a flirtation, Winchester?** was the near instantaneous reply.

Dean simply retorted with the eyeroll emoji and reversed his course, heading for his locker on the way to the main entrance. Stuffing Wroof into one of his coat’s generous pockets, he swapped his whole backpack for the helmet and gloves and arrived on the steps, relieved to see Castiel propped on the wall below, ankles crossed and fists in the pockets of his ubiquitous jacket.

“You really think you’re a hoot, don’t ya?” Dean remarked, leaning over the rail.

Castiel looked up, squinting into the sun. “I thought you were never going to ask to leave,” he replied, smirking mouth dismissing Dean’s stingless jab.

Ignoring any implied assumptions in return, Dean skipped down the stairs to meet him at the bike. "I need to get out of this place and not think for a while. If that's okay?"

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere—I don’t care.” Looking around, he eyed the other kids traversing the staircase but didn’t see anyone he knew, though he didn’t doubt someone would notice him playing hooky with Castiel.

“How’s Sam?” Castiel asked carefully.

“Worse, I think,” Dean said, as impassively as he could. “They wouldn’t let me see him this morning.”

The other boy tilted his head. “I have an idea. If you trust me, that is.”

“I probably trusted you more before you asked that,” Dean replied, lifting the helmet half over his head before halting mid-gesture. “Hey, if I do this thing later, am I allowed coffee now?”

A shadow passed over Castiel’s already nonplussed face. “I should think so. It’s still early.”

“Then I trust you if we stop on the way for coffee,” he added, resuming sliding the helmet home.

Gracefully throwing his leg over the seat, Castiel fastened his headwear and backed up the bike, starting it then waiting for Dean to arrange himself behind before quietly departing. It was only once they were at the end of the block and away from the school he let the engine roar. Stopping at Starbucks en route, they headed over the bridge into the midday sunshine, Dean cradling the cups in the carrier lodged between them as Cas navigated down to the park that ran along the river, north-east of the town.

Once free of his helmet, Dean peeled off the lid and all but skulled down the beverage. “You might want to just go straight to injecting it, next time,” Castiel observed, still sitting astride the motorbike and sipping at his own cup.

“Shut-up,” Dean said, petulant and cranky. He lifted his face to the sun, inviting its warm blessing while relishing the sweetened liquid pooling in his gut. Then he took what felt like the deepest breath he’d allowed himself in days. “What?” he asked, upon opening his eyes to find Castiel timidly staring at him.

Castiel cocked an eyebrow and Dean expected a sardonic reply. “Sunlight suits you,” Cas said guilelessly instead.

Dean tried but failed to hold Castiel’s exploratory gaze. A shy huff escaped him before he caught a bin affixed to a pole out of the corner of his eye, gratefully finding an excuse to wander away. He threw his cup in the rust-dimpled trash can, Cas coming up behind to do the same. “So, what did you have in mind that I needed to trust you for?” Dean inquired.

“Shall we walk?” Cas replied, pointing towards the path leading through the grass away from the carpark with an oddly formal gesture.

“Ok—ay,” Dean agreed doubtfully, looking at the woods. A nature hike wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but then he hadn’t had anything in his mind that he didn’t wish to avoid.

They ambled, having the path mostly to themselves accompanied by the sounds of birdsong, interrupted at one point by the engine of the boat traveling the river. The few people they encountered passed in the opposite direction; first an elderly couple in matching wind jackets on trail bikes, then a woman walking her dog - a lumbering golden retriever that halted mid-stride, ears perking at Castiel as they carried on. Dean looked behind, the dog’s owner tugging impatiently on its lead to draw it away as the animal stared resolutely after them.

“What’s it like?” Dean asked, the question hitting him out of the blue. “Being like...you are,” he added at Cas’s raised brow.

“Devastatingly handsome?” Castiel quipped then carried on, leaving Dean to roll his eyes at the trees overhead.

“Sure, whatever,” Dean grumbled, catching up and not giving up his curiosity easily. “You make it sound terrible.”

“It’s not terrible,” Cas answered ruminatively. The track widened, so he paused long enough they could walk shoulder to shoulder. “But it is isolating. It separates you. You might hate being stuck on the other side with Meg, Naomi and me. We’re fickle and tedious company.”

“That other side of what?”

“Experience, mostly. It’s a little like walking around in a parallel universe, simultaneously existing with the one you inhabit now.”

Dean mulled Cas’s words over. “You mean, you weren’t always like this?” he asked shrewdly.

Castiel glanced sideways, eyes keen. “Yes, and no. Some grow with it and into it but for others, it’s latent until it’s activated in some way.”

“You were the latter?”

“Yes,” the boy confirmed. “It was as much as a surprise to me as it was the people I was living with.” Castiel’s tone was taut and Dean was reluctant to push for more.

He decided to try another tack. “You must be able to do some cool shit though, right?”

“Oh, dear God,” Castiel lamented, “you’re going to be a nightmare.” He threw in a grin that had Dean wavering on whether the remark was intended as a condemnation or a compliment.

“I just wanna know what I’m letting myself in for, the good and the bad,” Dean argued, growing testy. “Can you not be a dick about it for two seconds?”

Castiel stopped and faced him with a contrite smile. “How about I show you. It’s why I brought you here.”

“Really?”

“You thought I lured you into the woods to have my way with you?” Castiel supplied with a leer.

“The fuck if I know!” he challenged loudly to cover the suggestion shooting an unexpected current through his belly. The sensation mingled with irritation at maybe being made fun of, the fact he couldn't tell amplifying his discomfort even further.

Luckily, Castiel didn't either notice or comment on the flush creeping up Dean's neck. He was already warm from the short hike before the clash of heat from embarrassment and something much more primal met along his collarbone.

“Follow me,” Cas said coyly and led the way ahead. After a few hundred more yards, he veered them off the track, reaching out to pluck something from a shrubby tree on the way. The ground began to slope towards the river as they stamped through the underbrush to emerge in a small clearing. Elegantly tall trees parted on either side to leave a clear view down to the river, grasses and roaming groundcovers dotted with early wildflowers laying a thick, spongy carpet under their feet.

“Take a seat,” Castiel suggested once they reached the center, gesturing to the ground.

Dean pulled a face and went to lower himself only to stop to take off his coat first, relieving him of his discomfort and providing him with something between his jeans and the forest floor in one. Laying it out he sat down heavily on top, Castiel arranging himself all too neatly with his legs crossed, knees only an inch or two away from Dean’s.

“What are y—”

“Shush,” Castiel interrupted, his eyes silvery in the dappled light from above. He wiggled his hips as if to settle himself comfortably, then brought his hand up between them. Unfurling his long fingers, he revealed a spray of the tiniest green berries in the cup of his palm.

Cas squared his shoulders and closed his eyes, then began to move his lips ever so slightly, like muscle memory from reciting something in his head. Dean had difficulty prying his gaze away from Castiel concentrating until his peripheral vision picked up the changes occurring in the boy’s hand. Infinitesimally, the barely-formed berries began to change, growing plumper, one by one, before their hue turned from bright, unripe green to blue, then dark purple and finally almost black over the course of a minute. Several of them split, splashing blood-red juice on Cas’s skin before he opened his eyes and the process ceased.

Unsure of what to say, Dean sat in quiet wonder as Castiel’s eyes cleared and flashed to Dean with the slightest of smiles, wary and serene at the same time. “Hold out your hand,” he ordered, taking the spray and stripping it half way to dump a handful of the berries in Dean’s dutiful palm. Then he finished denuding the spray and threw the twig to the side, leaving the remaining fruit in his own upturned hand. Then, he looked up, over Dean’s shoulder and into the canopy, eyelids briefly shutting again.

“Cas?” Dean whispered when nothing happened.

“Wait,” Castiel mouthed in reply. Then, without warning there was a whoosh next to Dean’s left ear as a bird fluttered and landed on the heel of other boy’s palm, its tiny head jerking this way and that as it inspected the contents before pecking at a split berry. Then it picked the fleshy prize up and flitted off.

Dean barely had a chance to take it in before two more landed from above his head, then another three, until soon both their hands were full of squabbling birds—bluebirds, all of them—pecking and tickling his palms with their scratchy feet, flying off or perching on Castiel’s shoulder and returning until all the berries were consumed or procured.

Dean snickered joyfully, disbelief plastered on his face as he met Castiel’s dancing eyes. There was a deep satisfaction there, beyond putting on a successful show for Dean, and something about the sincerity of it made his insides loop. Castiel’s mirrored his delight, top lip pulling back in a grin Dean couldn’t help but note was the first real, unaffected smile he’d seen on Cas’s face. “How?” he asked.

“It’s all about energy,” he began, wiping his hands on the fabric covering his thighs. “Energy much prefers to create than destroy. The universe appreciates cycles, so one of the easiest things to do is accelerate essence, especially when it benefits other life.”

“That was easy?” Dean asked incredulously, although come to think of it it didn’t seem to strain Cas like breaking into the store had.

Castiel gave him a modest shrug. “Safe too, in relative terms. Everything is relative,” he added ambiguously.

“So is this where you bring all your first dates?” Dean awkwardly teased recklessly, off-kilter with Castiel in a way he hadn’t been during all the other revelations that came from being around him.

He mentally kicked himself when the mood fell and he received a withering look in reply. “This may come as a surprise,” his companion sarcastically began, “but I haven’t been on any dates in a long time. Even before I came home.”

“You’re celibate? At eighteen?” Dean blurted without thinking. He needed to get his filter back in place.

“I guess that’s one word for it,” Castiel replied dryly. “By choice. I’ve wanted to avoid any complications, or opportunities to wreak havoc on others. Especially when my choice of partners helped contribute to—” he broke off, frowning for a moment while choosing his words, “—things being bad for a while.”

“You like guys?” Dean ventured weakly.

Castiel looked at his hands, pensively rotating the black ring on his finger. “It’s more complicated than that but yes, if we’re going there, I like boys,” he said eventually. “I like girls. I like whatever in between. Naomi likes to say I’m ‘indifferent’, but I can assure you I’m anything but.”

“Oh,” Dean said, assimilating this new and very pertinent information.

The boy resolutely met Dean’s curious gaze. “I was an early bloomer, you could say. Maybe as a consequence of my natural but volatile and hitherto unexplained state - that energy had to go somewhere,” Castiel explained, Dean watching him intently. “Anyway, one day Stephen—the man I’d mostly grown up thinking was my father—came home to find me with the dicks of not one but two of the swim team in my mouth, and combined with all the ways I’d already become sinister to him: the strange happenings and aptitudes, my unwillingness to go to church and repent, the fact that I wasn’t his and his two other sons hated me, my existence in his house became untenable to him. He, uh— he beat me to within an inch of my life then locked me in the basement for six days.”

Dean gulped. “Jesus, Cas.”

“It wasn’t the first time he’d been violent with me. He was a mean drunk, you see, especially after he lost his job. The money from Naomi was the only thing that kept the family afloat as Karen—his wife’s—part-time work brought in so little. But that was the worst occasion.”

“What happened?”

“What happened?” Castiel’s voice grew distant and colorless. “I killed him is what happened.” Dean’s spine chilled like his blood was liquid nitrogen. “Not right away, and not on purpose. But his life ended because of me.”

“Holy shit. Cas,” he whispered. “I had no idea.”

“Why would you?” Castel said, suddenly bemused. “No one knows where I came from and Naomi and Meg prefer it. Their own culpability is private, that way.”

Dean’s mind was racing to keep up. “What do you mean?”

Castiel repressed his fidgeting hands under his thighs and continued, the words tumbling out. “The CliffsNotes version goes like this: Meg and Naomi needed a third—it’s a power thing, and a stability thing—so my mother got herself knocked up. But _whoops!_ I was the wrong gender and assumed unendowed with the family gift. At the time it was deemed in my best interests to have a _normal_ upbringing, so I was adopted out along with a generous child support package to a family they thought would provide all my needs. But along with puberty it became apparent I had, in fact, received my supernatural inheritance after all, except I didn’t know what it was and there was no one around to enlighten and guide me. Just a new but devoutly religious, insecure, bigot of a man in charge of me: a fifteen-year-old poised to go nuclear.”

His face ruptured into a smile, but one devoid of any humor. “It was only after Stephen died I found out Naomi existed—they must have been notified, and I certainly was no longer wanted—but by then it was too late. I’d already exercised my power indiscriminately and irrevocably to the point it was exercising me. At which point I was shipped off to rehabilitate with another branch of the family." The fake smile dissipated. "The less said about that time, the better. It’s pitiful and boring.”

Dean didn’t know what to do or say. It was _a lot_ , and while half of him wanted to reach out and touch Cas, the other half definitely wanted to flee. In the end, it was Cas who reached for him, laying an unsteady palm over Dean’s heart, cautiously, like he suspected Dean wanted to run but he needed a bridge, something to moor to. “I see the way you love your brother, Winchester, and I am utterly without reference points. I don’t know how that feels.” The boy frowned. “I’m not sure I can feel," he confessed, letting his hand drop, and Dean regretted not grasping it. “I’ve always been a commodity, and although Naomi has apologized and atoned a hundred times over since I was brought home, in many ways we are still strangers, and I’m still a bumbling child.”

“You’re not a child,” Dean offered ineffectually.

Cas looked up sharply, amusement sparkling dimly in his eyes. “I don’t mean literally,” he drawled, and just like that the provocative facade slid back in place and the subject bottled back up. “So now you know my worst and darkest secrets, is there anything else you want to know?” he offered with a grand sweep of his arms.

Whiplash churning his emotions Dean tried to focus but couldn’t, so he said the first thing that popped into his head. “Uh, energy? Can you explain?”

“Yes, energy!” Cas agreed, slightly manic now as if his skin couldn’t contain him, words tumbling over one another. “Everything has its own energy, and we can tap into it, divert it, manipulate it. Energy alchemy, if you will.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. Well, almost. But everything’s elemental, you see.” Dean didn’t see at all and was about to tell him so when Cas saved him the trouble. “Don’t worry, you’ll understand later, you know, if you change over.”

“Can you give me an example?” Dean asked hopefully.

“Metals, air, water...nothing is completely static. I dislike water, as a rule, but for some reason it responds to me almost more than anything. Need a water diviner?” he asked, waving one palm wildly at the river, “then I’m your man.”

The boy was beginning to scare him in a wholly new way. “Castiel,” Dean said firmly, wanting to break him out of his escalating diatribe.

Cas blinked and faced him, looking through him rather than at him. This time Dean did reach out, wrapping a hand over his right wrist and tucking a finger under the leather cuff to stroke the skin over Castiel's pulse point. The boy was trembling, but the contact seemed enough to focus him back. “Show me something else,” Dean suggested, squeezing his arm gently.

Castiel blinked again. He looked around then briskly stood, holding out a hand. “Come over here.”

Dean allowed himself to be pulled up and followed over to the edge of the clearing to where one of the larger trees stood. Castiel stood with his shoulder against the three-foot-wide trunk and directed Dean to face him and do the same, then placed both hands against the bark. “Listen, and let the tree talk to you,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Trust me,” Castiel invited again, and Dean did, knowing implicitly that this was something Castiel was in control of even if he wasn’t of himself.

Laying his hands on the trunk, he watched Cas shut his eyes and tentatively did the same, thinking if anyone happened by and took a picture of him hugging a fucking tree he’d never live it down. Nothing happened, and he was about to protest when Cas pre-emptively shushed him again.

Then, he heard it. Or felt it; maybe a combination of the two. A not-so-subtle hum, like an electrified fence but at a much lower frequency. After another minute or so more sounds joined. A pulse like the slowest of heartbeats, harmonizing with a lighter zapping sound and then others until there was a quiet percussive symphony playing through Dean’s hands and along his arms. It was barely there, and yet it was as if each repetition of the rhythm leached away his anxiety and carried it into the depths of the wood.

“Did you hear?” Castiel said, and Dean opened his eyes to the boy watching him, arms and ankles casually crossed and wearing a timid smile. “The tree recognized you.”

Dean let his hands fall from the bark. “Yeah,” he replied in a hushed tone. “That’s some weird, hippy shit, but I did. Thanks.”

“Thank the tree,” Castiel countered, airily, then grinned wider, cheeks puckering with dimples. Like Dean, it seemed his excess agitation had been siphoned away and he’d returned to his old self, despite that self being a riot of new information to Dean he’d need time to process.

“Can I ask another question?” he proposed, wanting to get the most out of this newer, accessible version of Cas.

“You can try.”

Dean ignored him and carried on. “How am I gonna feel afterward? What will be different?”

“Everything, and nothing.”

“Cas—”

“You’ll experience everything differently,” Castiel continued over Dean’s flash of impatience. “Colors will have changed, sensations will feel infinitely more complex and bewildering and inverted—you can go crazy, just from that, you know—you’ll hear whispers on every breeze, inanimate objects will cease to be trustworthy, living creatures will disconcertingly both revere you and be deeply suspicious of you in equal measure, and people? People will be infuriating and yet you’ll always be cut off from them, subconsciously ostracized and estranged; you’ll always be the one on the outside. But no one, not one living thing will be as afraid of you as you are of yourself.”

“Don’t oversell it, Novak,” Dean replied through an irrepressible grin which had emerged throughout Castiel’s categorically delivered description, mesmerized by the filtered shafts of light playing over the planes of his face and supplication suffusing his eyes even as they blazed.

Castiel’s jaw dropped in horror. “Why are you smiling—have you gone mad already?”

“Possibly,” he murmured, knowing exactly what he needed to do only as he began to do it. Swooping close to Castiel’s face, he hovered his mouth over the other boy’s for a speculative moment before closing his eyes and planting a kiss, plain but deliberate, just long enough for Cas’s lips to respond and mold to his. But then just as fast, they withdrew.

Blinking, Dean felt Castiel's hand planted firmly on his chest, not unlike before except this time it was a barrier. “Wha—why?” Cas stammered, frozen.

Dean took a moment, running the tip of his tongue over his lips while he formed the words. “If everything will feel different tomorrow, I wanted to know what that felt like today,” he said, letting his gaze drop from Castiel's stricken one to his mouth.

Next thing he knew, the fingers against his tee scrunched into it, pulling him off balance then shunting him back against the tree as this time Castiel kissed him, muffling Dean's surprised _mmphh_ and pressing his back against the coarse bark, the ridges scraping through the thin cotton. He didn’t care, because Castiel Novak: senior, weirdo, witch, possible psychopath and force of fucking nature was starving him of oxygen in the very best way, exacting his hot tongue along Dean’s top lip and tugging on the bottom, nipping, smothering and asking him to yield as fingernails scraped his hip. Dean’s hand jolted to the back of Cas’s neck to sink fingers into his hair and hold him there. Or maybe just for something to hold on to as the branches overhead bent and leaves rippled, fluttering in a sudden, violent breeze that made Dean want to giggle hysterically even in the midst of being pinned.

Then, Castiel’s mouth was gone, the boy pushing himself away to lurch back into the clearing, muttering. “No. We can’t—this is—this is a bad idea. A very bad idea.”

“What?” Dean managed, panting and unsure whether to be injured or not. His head swam from the general reverberation: from the kiss, from the afternoon, from hunger.

Castiel raised an imperious hand, putting Dean on pause while he closed his eyes and composed himself. “Let me rephrase. This is a fucking fantastic idea, but terrible, inopportune timing.”

Dean scrubbed his face and arranged himself off the tree, half afraid his knees would buckle. “Why?” he sighed.

“Because!” Cas began, too loudly, dislodging the small flock of birds still nearby. “Because,” he began again, more measured, “any distractions, anything that tethers you to your current self could prove dangerous to the process, should you go ahead. This....this is a large distraction.” Nonetheless, Castiel pressed fingers over his mouth like the ghost of Dean’s hapless advance. Or maybe to wipe it away.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dean sneered, stinging, then immediately regretted it as Castiel’s face fell.

“To both of us, Winchester,” Cas replied, steely and quiet now. “Oh and fuck you.”

Taking a placating step forward, Dean formed an apology. “Cas—”

“ _You_ kissed _me_!” Dean stopped in the face of Cas’s abrupt wrath. The boy threw up his hands and turned in a full, incensed circle before facing him again, his expression stripped. “I didn’t want this to happen, that’s not why I spilled my guts to you. Accidentally! I didn’t intend to do that either, just so you know.”

“Bullshit.” It was Dean’s turn to erupt, though there was no heat in it. “You’re just afraid.”

“I have my reasons!”

Dean looked down, shaking his head. He was tired. Castiel had been given him mixed signals for days—months even, and just when he thought he'd been sure of something, something he didn't want to overthink, it was crumbling like everything else. “I like you, Cas. Deal with it,” he confessed to the forest floor.

When he looked back up, Castiel’s face was unreadable. “If you mean that, you’re not as astute as I assumed,” the boy observed hollowly.

Smarting again, Dean stalked past to pick up his coat, shaking it off violently before tying the arms around his waist and checking Wroof was still lodged in the pocket. “Dean—” came softly from over his shoulder. He reluctantly looked back to see Castiel’s blue eyes wide and imploring and closer than he wanted them to be despite just two minutes earlier wanting to plunge into them. “Can we just put this back in the box for now? Let’s see if we both make it to tomorrow, at least.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, inevitability rebounding. “Yeah okay.”

They both wordlessly made their way back up to the path and began the trek back to the carpark, Castiel leading the way. Apart from a couple of bikers whizzing past, they didn’t see anyone, and they didn’t hurry.

They weren’t far from where the trees gave way to grass when Castiel slowed to ask a question over his shoulder, his voice muted and tentative. “So, your mind is made up?”

“Don’t see how I have much of a choice,” Dean answered honestly.

“You could run. Let fate take its course with your brother and get far away. From me, my batshit family, from all this—” he trailed off, drawing a circle in the air to encompass whatever he felt bound to protect Dean from. “Live a normal life,” he added forlornly.

“I don’t know what normal is anymore,” Dean murmured, then realized something. He stopped in his tracks, Castiel taking a second to catch on and turn around. “You’re scared I won’t feel the same afterward. You’re afraid I won’t be _me_ ,” he accused, then his brain made another leap. “Wait, have you been flirting with me all this time to try to...to push me away?”

Suddenly, Castiel looked decimated. “I don’t know.” He planted his hands in his jacket pockets and attempted to shrug it off, looking miserably into the middle-distance. “I’m ill-equipped to deal with emotions Winchester, remember?”

Dean stood there rearranging all the puzzle pieces so they made sense, but with all he was feeling the pieces wouldn’t keep their shapes. Cas cared for him, in his own strange and incompetent way. He figured he could assume that much. Maybe, he thought, standing there as they both cautiously faced off, they could each teach the other: Castiel to be human, and Dean to be a witch.

“Do I need to let your mother and grandmother know to expect me?” Dean asked, doing what Cas suggested and packing it away into one of his expansive corners where it could either be examined later or gather dust. He hadn't known it until he knew, now, totally and unconditionally, he would take up Meg and Naomi’s offer. 

Castiel let out a long exhale, his eyes traveling grudgingly to Dean's face.

“No,” he said, resigned and firm. “They’ll already know.”

 


	10. The Changeover

 

School was well out by the time they got back to the bike so they found themselves meandering through to streets back to Arcadia without further detours, an awkward silence full of half-asked questions lodged between them.

After disembarking, Dean sent his father a text to say he’d be first at track practice and then studying at Benny’s for the afternoon. Lying didn’t come easily, but he figured from today he was going to be committed to concealment for some time so he may as well start practicing now.

“Dean,” said Naomi as she greeted them in the hallway as they hung their coats. “You’re early!”

“No time like the present,” he replied, feigning geniality to match hers.

Castiel’s mother took his arm, folding it under her own and falling in step beside him. “That may be, but we have a few hours yet before we can begin. How are you feeling?”

“Nervous,” Dean admitted, the butterflies flocking now that he was here, swallowed into the bowels of the strange house from which he was set to emerge as someone different, even though he couldn't envision who that would be.

“Not to worry, we have time for you to rest and relax.” She patted his arm reassuringly but Dean couldn't help hearing an ominous note in her chiming voice. “How about you sit down and Castiel can make you some tea.”

“Mother!” Cas complained, but traipsed into the kitchen anyway while Naomi seated Dean on the long couch.

“The blend in the red tin, dear! On the second shelf,” she called cheerfully after her son before sinking herself in the adjacent chair. “Now, you’ve fasted, Dean?’

“Nothing since half a piece of toast before school.” He’d been trying not to think about his stomach but the moment he did it let out a burbling lament.

“Perfect. Have you seen your brother today?”

Dean met her clear, blue stare, lighter than Castiel's. “No. He’s getting worse.”

She nodded, then replied, “Dean, I need to ask, is your purpose clear?”

Wavering, not because he wasn’t sure, but at the way she leaned towards him, waiting, he let the answer form from deep in his marrow. “Yes, it is. I know what I want and why,” he told her.

“Excellent.” She clapped her hands together and sat back, her attention stood down and it was evident he’d said something significant.

He almost mustered the courage to quiz her about it when Cas walked back into the room with a mug, setting it down on the occasional table at Dean’s elbow with, “It tastes better than it smells, I promise.” Dean lifted the cup and sipped, the wisp of steam circling up his nose carrying the unsavory aroma that was probably, in fact, preferable to the week-old-socks and overripe fruit taste. He pulled a face. “I’m sorry. My promises mean nothing,” Cas added, flashing him a contrite grin.

“Ah, Dean!” Meg said, appearing from somewhere behind him and drawing his attention from the dreadful brew. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to come.”

“Not sure I could have made a different decision,” he admitted quietly. There was something about the older woman that made him drop his guard a little more than Castiel's mother. He liked her, he realized, even though he was far from trusting her.

Meg made her way around the couch and sat heavily on the ottoman so they were knee to knee. “We make choices and choices make us,” she said, reaching for his right hand. Placing it lightly between her own, forcing his eyes to travel up her long silvery braid to her round face. “Whatever is to come for Sam, this is the right choice for you, Dean Winchester. You are already touched, and that presence inside you is waiting to unfurl.”

“Meg,” Castiel warned from where he sat to her rear, his expression darkening. “Your bias is showing.”

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean argued, firm but forgiving, then paused to take a long swallow of the tea. The cup was half gone already but he didn’t remember drinking it. “This may not be what I expected, but I didn’t expect any of this even last week. Including _you_ ,” he confessed pointedly, unable to stop himself from drilling a stare right into Cas’s astonished face.

While Castiel’s expression rippled like a sail in the breeze his grandmother squeezed Dean’s fingers and issued him a beatific smile. “When there is no order in the world around us, we must adapt ourselves to the requirements of chaos instead,” she said.

Dean smiled shyly back at her. “Vonnegut,” he said simply, the quote echoing in his memory.

“See, we understand each other already,” she replied, her finely-lined cheek pulling into a smirk.

Cas whined, throwing his head back and exposing the long line of his throat. “What is happening?” he complained.

“Dean is simply settling into who he’s meant to be, aren’t you dear,” Meg observed, patting the back of his hand. “Now, Dean, do you have any questions about what will happen?”

Dean drained his mug and set it down. The old woman’s palms were warm around his and he couldn’t help notice the sense of calm seeping through his limbs. He considered, then spoke the only question that had lingered on his mind. “I need your assurance this is the only way Sam can be saved,” he asked, composed, then glanced between the women, “from both of you.”

From over his grandmother’s shoulder, Cas sharpened an approving stare at Dean. “Given the resources available to us? Yes, I swear to you,” Meg replied, her eyes keen.

“My mother is right, Dean,” added Naomi. “With more time we might have been able to call in some aid, but this is the only way that we know with any kind of certainty will work.”

He nodded, satisfied. “What will I be giving up?” Dean queried further.

This time, Naomi answered first, although less than reassuringly. “Nothing that you don’t want to. Your humanity, your heart and soul are always yours to keep.”

“You are only giving up an idea of yourself, Dean. And you only need gain what you reach for,” Meg added, more brightly.

“Enough of your cryptic platitudes,” Cas muttered, rising to stand. He gave Dean a cautious look, reluctant and fervid at the same time. “I’m going to prepare. I’ll see you soon, Dean. Good luck! I’m sure you’ll do better than I,” he said stiffly, then left the room.

Dean’s eyes followed Castiel until he disappeared into the hallway. “What did he mean?” he asked, uneasy at the abrupt departure. Sure, Cas wasn’t happy about Dean’s decision but he’d let himself hope Cas would stick by him anyway. He _had_ to do this, either way.

“There was a time, unbeknownst to us, that Castiel thought he might be able to crossover in the other direction. But it didn’t work. The gift is too embedded in him.”

“Oh,” was all Dean could say. He was beginning to feel a little out of it. Stoned almost, if he didn’t know better, the room blurring at the edges. “Was this after he killed his foster father?” he said, taking his hand from Meg so he could issue air quotes, his forearms feeling ridiculously heavy. Then he saw the shock on Naomi’s face and wished he could scoop up the words and put them back in his mouth.

“He told you that?” enquired Meg.

Dean nodded obediently and the older woman sighed, though it was Naomi who spoke, her voice thin. “It’s my guilt to carry, despite Castiel still carrying his own.” She fidgeted, fingers knotting together as her features, already pulled tight by the bun in her hair, pinched further. “I gave him to that...that man and his wife thinking I would be giving him as normal a life as possible. I didn’t _know_. Every communication I had was that he was having a normal life, the kind of life he could only have if he wasn’t here.”

“Castiel didn’t kill him,” Meg interrupted, curtailing her daughter’s regrets with the stern statement. Dean felt tension abate he hadn't realized he’d carried for the last few hours. “The aneurysm was most likely lurking there. Anything could have triggered it, but Castiel prefers to blame himself, even though he was barely himself at the time.”

Taking a few moments to think everything over, Dean was surprised by Meg bending beside him, squeezing his curled fingers. “Dean, it’s almost time. Is your father going to be looking for you?”

“I thought you said we’d have to wait for to—” He broke off, looking around him to see the room dim and the light fading outside the french doors, the trees beyond reduced to silhouettes. “What happened?” he asked, more out of curiosity than alarm at the afternoon disappearing. _What was in that tea?_

“Nothing Dean. You are quite safe. You’re simply disconnecting to some of the enforcements of time and place. It bodes well.”

“Okay,” he accepted, as easy as that. “I better call my dad though. He thinks I’m doing homework with a friend.”

Meg patted the back of his palm. “Very well, but don’t let yourself be distracted. And make sure he knows you’ll be taken care of tonight.”

“Will I have to stay here?” he asked, concern leaking into his numbed brain. “I didn’t bring a toothbrush,” he protested meekly, then wondered why that of all things occurred to him.

The old woman’s face split with a grin that housed a giggle. “Never mind Dean, we can lend you whatever you need.”

“Okay.” Placated, he fished for his phone and dialed his father, noting the two missed calls as he did.

 _“Dean! I was trying to reach you,”_ John said as soon as he picked up.

“Sorry, Dad. Benny’s been helping me catch up on some homework and I lost track of time,” he explained, not totally dishonestly.

 _“It’s no problem,”_ his father assured, his voice sounding more hollow than ever on the other end of the line. _“I think, uh...I think you should just stay home this evening. No point being here.”_ Relief that John was saving him the excuse was tempered with annoyance at being excluded again.

“Dad—” he began, but John cut him off, anticipating dissent.

_“Dean, don’t argue with me, son. Not now. You can’t do anything here.”_

“Okay, Dad,” he acquiesced out of habit.

He heard John take a shuddering breath, and when he spoke again Dean’s heart nearly broke _. “I think it’s better you remember him as he was, not like this. Think of him as that lively, wise-ass little kid who can run rings around both of us.”_

Dean chewed his lip and tried to hold onto the old witch’s command to stay focused despite his father’s fears leeching into his own. “Dad,” Dean whispered, “he’s still here. His eighth birthday is next week and he’s going to be there.”

There’s a long silence, then John sniffed and spoke again. _“You should prepare yourself, Dean. The docs - they’re trying everything, even talking of transferring to KC, but I think even they know he’s too sick now.”_

Swallowing hard, Dean tried to pull himself out of the conversation. He wanted to be with his dad to help alleviate his grief and see his brother, but his real job remained here, in this house.

“I’m gonna go, okay? I’ll call you first thing in the morning.” John sniffed again, a miserable, wet sound, but didn’t reply. “Goodbye, Dad,” he added solemnly. He didn’t share Cas’s pessimism over what he was about to do, but he thought it worth making what might be his last words to his father count.

He ended the call and inhaled deeply to settle himself again, any dregs of dejection he felt evaporating in the path of his resolve. When he looked up, the older woman was gone and Cas’s mother stood at the end of the couch.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

 

 

Dean allowed Naomi to take his phone, placing it on the table before leading him up the stairs and along the landing, passing Castiel's closed door before coming to a halt by another. “Your journey will begin and end in this room, Dean. I will see you again during your quest to help you along," she said, knocking twice on the wood. As she drifted away, the door opened to reveal Castiel’s grandmother in a long flowing dress, as inky as the twilight outside. It had a scooped neck which served to show off a number of chains and amulets resting against her age-spotted skin.

“Welcome, Dean Winchester,” she said ceremoniously, gesturing for him to enter. He stepped through the doorway and into a large, dimly-lit bathroom, Meg latching the door behind him. It was a modern room compared to the rest of the house. A glass-walled shower ran along one wall, with a toilet and vanity on the other. At the end of the room, however, was a large hexagonal bay window that housed a round, white tub. It was inset into a marble surround and reeked of the kind of luxury Dean had suspected lurked somewhere in the house.

The tub was full, the liquid in it milky. A number of candles burned about the room including the sills around the bath, as did a small beaten copper brazier sitting near the taps. “That bath for me?” Dean asked, immediately dubious. He hadn’t taken a bath since he was a kid.

“Ridding you of as much of the world as possible is how we'll start, Dean. It will help make you receptive to the awakening you seek, the one that's waiting for the right invitation.” He cocked a brow. “Don’t worry, I won’t watch,” she assured with a little laugh, “but I do need to stay in the room to monitor you.”

“Uh, sure,” he replied unconvincingly. So far, so weird.

“First though, you must drink this.” Meg reached for a metal cup, almost like a goblet sitting on a squat stem. She handed it to him in his right hand but in the same motion swiftly clasped his left.

“Ow!” he yelped, nearly spilling the drink at the prick she made into his index fingertip without even seeing what she used.

“Sorry,” she answered warmly, holding his finger over the cup. “Sometimes it’s best not to know it’s coming.” She squeezed, letting several drops of blood drip into the already dark red contents.

“What is it?” Dean asked, retrieving his finger to suck on the wound.

“Mulled wine, mostly. It won’t be alcoholic—you’ll need your wits. But it will help you begin your journey.”

Dean frowned at the liquid, then took a sip. It was strange and pungent but not unpleasant, so he downed the contents in three long swallows and handed the cup back to the old woman. “Good,” she smiled. “Now, remove everything you’re wearing and put this on,” she ordered, pointing at a pile of white fabric draped over a stool before turning her back to him and wandering a few steps away.

Keeping half an eye on her back, Dean unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his tee over his head, dumping both on the floor. Then he picked up the garment, finding it a heavy linen shirt of some kind almost like an old fashioned nightshirt that reached to just above his knees once he’d slipped it on and poked his hands free of the billowing sleeves. Next, he took off his footwear, jeans, and underwear, likewise dropping them before kicking the whole pile into the corner. 

He splayed his toes into the plush cream bath mat. “Okay,” he said, feeling entirely ridiculous.

Meg faced him again, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight as she approached. “Excellent. We’re ready to begin.” Taking a small bottle from a pocket at her hip, she poured out a small amount of oily liquid into her palm. “Hold out your hands,” she commanded quietly, and Dean did. Twisting each so his palms were flat, she dotted a small amount on each of his wrists then tucked her finger into the open V of the shirt to draw a straight, wet line across his collarbones.

“Will this hurt?” Dean asked, hushed and unable to stop the question escaping into the humid air.

“It will feel like it,” Meg replied, rubbing her palms. Then she reached high and rubbed a little oil into his hair. “You are changing forever, Dean, and it will feel hard. But it will only be pain that your subconscious knows you can withstand. Just do what is shown to you and trust yourself and your purpose.  We'll help you marry the existing with the new, but it's up to you to choose what the lock inside looks like and how to break it open.”

The old woman dropped few more drops into her hand then sidestepped him to splash them into the brazier, the liquid hissing as it met the heated coals inside. Just then, Dean felt an odd sensation almost like a tap on the back of his head, his skull a bell left to hum with a single, protracted note. “What did you just feel?” Meg asked, her eyes alert.

“I don’t know. My head—something moved,” was the best description he could offer.

Meg’s curious smile widened. “It's that something in you,” she began, reaching to lightly press fingertips to his temple. “It likely recognized the signs we’re making. Your halfway nature is giving you a signal.” She eyed him with an appreciative expression that began to make him uncomfortable. “You’re going to be magnificent, Dean Winchester,” she pronounced, his chagrin doubling down. “Come, look,” she added, pulling at his elbow until they’d both appeared in front of the wide mirror over the vanity. “You could already be one of us.”

Dean reluctantly met his reflection, tall and broad under the huge shirt compared to the woman standing next to him. Not unlike the morning he'd been warned last week in his own bathroom, he didn’t recognize himself as the kid who'd skipped his classes and track practice after school. His freckles—normally pale after the winter—trailed a bronze galaxy over his nose in the flickering candlelight while his uncertain mouth paused in readiness. His eyes flared, as impenetrable as raw jade plumed by dark lashes. “Do you need me? To be one of you,” he asked bluntly. Meg’s reflection hoisted an eyebrow. “Cas said something about three being a power thing,” he added, staring down her image. “But you have that. Or is Cas that broken?”

“Castiel—” she began curtly, then stopped and sighed, stowing her momentary temper before continuing. “My grandson has much to mend within, as his mother and I do with him. Naomi thought bringing another in would provide the counterweight for me, to tether me to the macrocosm instead of becoming the servant of a tiny, nefarious part of it. But we were too wound up in each other to properly see Castiel.” She turned to him and pinned him with her dark gaze. “He’s not as broken as he would believe. I know you know this, Dean, in here,” she said, touching his breastbone through the linen. “He’s correct, a triumvirate is a necessity for many things we can safely perform, including this, with you, tonight.” She paused to soften. “Together, we will all be stronger, but I can promise on behalf of us all we will share all knowledge with you so that you may go on and live your life and exercise your true self, however you choose.” Dean searched her brown eyes, but besides doubting Cas's buy-in, he couldn’t find anything to argue with before she continued. “Tonight, this room is a crossway of many lines of space and time, and it’s up to you to pick which to follow or fish with. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he pronounced, hoping he believed it deep down.

“Then come.” Gesturing to the bath, the woman led him to the edge and waiting for him to step in, turning her back as he folded himself down, the shirt billowing around him when it hit the murky-white water. “I’ll just sit while you bathe,” she said, planting herself on a lone dining chair in the far corner. “Let your mind open and wander, Dean.”

Dean nestled himself further down in the water, hotter than he expected and aromatic with whatever infused it. It lapped around and over his shoulders in small waves while he attempted to ignore the impulse to assess how odd the situation was. Around him the candles danced, throwing unsteady shadows on the walls as he let himself float and his eyelids to droop. He tried to keep them open, but the more he did the more the shadows grew and mutated until he was sure the walls were crawling with vines that threatened to hang down from the ceiling and which hid the eyes of prowling creatures. Looking down, the water seemed to stretch into an infinite, foamy sea meeting the black horizon that shone with not only with stars but four moons.

“You sure there was no alcohol in that wine?” he asked.

His companion made her way over and knelt, bracing herself on the marble surround as she lowered onto the tile. “What did you see?” she asked intently.

“Nothing, really. And everything. I’m a little light-headed,” he confessed.

“Your rebirth has begun, Dean,” Meg advised. “Hold out your hand.” Pulling his right hand from the water, he unfurled his fingers in front of her. In them, she placed a coin, rough-hewn and cold. He flipped it with his thumb, unable to decipher the strange symbols on each side which encircled the hole in the center. Then Meg folded his hand shut with her own. “It’s time to make your wish, the reason you want to make the change. Imagine what you want, then act with conviction so it becomes a reality.”

Dean shut his eyes and thought of Sam, shrunken and wan in a hospital bed a few miles away, and how he wanted nothing more than to see him grinning again as they playfully wrestled on the living room floor, then he allowed himself only the briefest moment to imagine being able to bring Azazel to his knees and freeing his brother. Then he opened his eyes and lifted his chin. “Okay.”

“Good. Don’t let go of this,” she commanded fiercely, patting his fingers. “Show it to whoever asks to see it and whatever you do, do not look or turn back.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“It must work Dean. It’s your life you gamble with if you let yourself doubt or stop part way.”

“I’m not scared," he volunteered. He was glad, in fact. It _had_ to work and that was the end of it.

“I can tell,” she answered, smiling again. “Now, the journey is inward even though it will seem outward. Can you see our lady moon?”

His eyeline drifted out the window to the huge, round moon hanging in the sky. “Yes,” he said, clasping the coin tight and holding his fist to his chest, just above the water.

“She’ll watch over you as you wander inside yourself."

“How?”

“Remember the blood?” Follow the drop you drank.”

Dean frowned and closed his eyes to concentrate, imagining searching for a drop inside of himself while thinking it was like a macabre needle in the proverbial haystack. But then when he opened his eyes again the room was pitch black. He looked around frantically, trying to find a shape in the dark when a ghostly hand touched his.

Looking up, he saw a shock of wavy, blonde hair on the figure suddenly standing in front of him, reaching out to touch his jaw. "Mom?"

“Dean,” she smiled, with lips plump like his were. He’d forgotten he’d got them from her.

“Mom,” he said again, helplessly. He wanted to hug her, but she had a baby swaddled and slung to her front.

“Dean,” she repeated, her smile as sweet as honey as she reached out and touched his face. “I’m sorry, Dean,” she added.

“For what?”

She looked down at the baby—Sam, stroking a fingertip over one sleeping cheek. “For entrusting you with this burden and leaving you,” she said.

His heart lurched. “It wasn’t your fault, Mom.”

“You needed me. Your brother and father needed me,” she argued unhappily.

Dean took a deep breath. He wanted to argue back, tell her they were okay without her. But they weren’t: not always, and not now. “We did, Mom. You’re right.” She finally looked up, her blue eyes swimming with tears. “I hated you for leaving, for a while. I even hated Sam for surviving when you didn’t.”

She nodded, and Dean pushed down at the lump congealing in his throat. “You said angels would watch over us, but they weren’t watching over you. You lied.” Mary choked back a sob and Dean reached for her, pulling her to him anyway. Then the baby was gone and he could throw both arms around her. “But it’s alright, Mom. We’re not the same, but we’re still okay. We’ll be okay, Sam and me.”

He scrunched his nose in her hair and clung until her crying abated. She smelled exactly that same as when he’d last hugged her, nearly eight years ago, of fresh laundry and  _home._ “I’m surprised you even remember me,” she said, letting him go.

“Of course I do. I tell Sam about you, too. What I can, anyway.”

“Does John?” she enquired. Dean pursed his mouth and considered his answer, but she mercilessly diverted instead. “Well this conversation is a drag!” she said, looking away as a rueful laugh erupted, Dean following suit while wiping moisture from his cheeks. “I believe you,” she added, her eyes returning to his.

“About?”

“You’ll be okay. More than okay, Dean.”

He gave her a warm smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

She hugged him again. “Just trust your intuition, and remember your heart is a two-way vessel: love needs to come in as well as go out.” Mary smudged his cheek with a kiss as she withdrew, bathing him in a fond look. “You’ll be whatever you want to be. So go find out who that is.”

Returning her smile, Dean fortified himself with a deep inhale. “Whatever you say, Mom,” he said, and forced himself to turn away. Before him, the edges of his vision were still dominated by a dark fog, but he saw enough to make out a bare, concrete path. “I guess this is the way,” he said, looking tentatively over his shoulder, then had to absorb the jolt as he saw his mother was no longer there. _Don’t look back_ he reminded himself, the jolt passing beyond his emotions and into the ground like a small quake.

Dean allowed a moment for the ground to steady and to wish his mother had been real. Then he took a step forward, noticing for the first time his feet were bare, as were his knees. “Great,” he muttered under his breath, flapping the wet shirt at his thigh. “Hav’ta do a stupid imaginary quest in a dress.”

He began walking, picking up the pace until he all but jogged, the path remaining unremarkable and monotonous for minutes or maybe even hours, he couldn’t tell. Finally, the light brightened and grass began to appear to one side until he arrived, disappointed at finding himself standing near the foot of the school steps. Kids moved this way and that like a throng; conversations bubbling around him, cars passing behind him and the trees that lined the street tossing their leaves in an impatient wind. It was as if time was sped up and only he remained still.

Only he and one other, leaning against his bike in its customary spot to the right of the concrete staircase. “Nice duds, Winchester,” Castiel called out. Dean groaned and made his way over to the boy dressed in a flowing linen shirt, the difference is his was black and tucked into dark jeans.

“Shuddup,” Dean said plaintively. "Duds? Seriously? You from the nineteen-forties now?"

“Wet nightie is a good look on you,” Cas smirked, ignoring Dean and his multiplying mortification.

Dean hugged himself self-consciously, hoping his attire wasn’t see-through. ‘What do you want, Cas?”

Castiel’s face turned deadly serious in a heartbeat and for a moment Dean thought he saw something move behind it; a glimpse of other faces, other heads, some tufted and winged, some furred. “Have you got the coin? I need to see it,” Castiel asked, with only his own voice.

Shaking the vision, Dean held out his hand to show Castiel the metal disc in his palm. “Uh, happy?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Winchester. You know me.” Dean took that as an invitation to study him further, looking for any hint of what he might have seen seconds ago but discerning only the senior boy he was used to, almost as tall as himself but a shade slimmer and an inscrutable amalgam of awkward and seductive.

He turned the stare into an ogle, turning the tables of discomfort until Castiel was the one squirming on the spot. “Getting there, I guess,” Dean agreed, letting his eyes slide over the long lines of Cas’s legs then grinning as his likewise bare feet, long toes poking out from the dark denim. “So what now?”

“You need to take this,” Cas said, twisting to pick up something laying across the back of the bike.

“Woah!” Dean said, taking in the three-foot-long sword, gleaming dully in the afternoon light. “Cool.”

“Oh for fuck's sake," Cas swore cheerfully, dragging the last syllable into a groan. He held it out. “It’s a tool, Dean. Not a prize.”

Taking the sword by its ridged hilt, Dean gave it an experimental swing, then another, eyes wide as they followed the arc of the blade. “Uh, what am I going to need this for?” he asked, the question occurring belatedly.

“How do I know what metaphorical dragons you need to slay, Winchester?” Cas said impatiently. “Just use it when you need it, against anything that won’t let you pass.”

“Uh, okay. I guess I should—which way do I go now?” he asked, looking around. The school was deserted again, the wind picking up even more while the sunlight faded behind whipped clouds.

Castiel pushed his hips off the bike. “I’ll walk with you.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said, a trickle of gratitude leaking in the cracks of his resolve as they turned along the sidewalk. He hoped they could find a way to be friends at least, after this.

“Dean, don’t think about me.”

“Why not? I like it,” he argued boldly, glossing over the fact that Cas could apparently sense his thoughts.

“Dean!” Castiel objected, whining Dean’s name like it was an affliction. They walked a little further, the grass to the side turning to weeds and then underbrush of spiky ferns and creeping ivy. ”I like it too,” the boy divulged eventually, reluctance wrinkling his nose. Dean nudged him in the ribs with an elbow but kept his grin to himself as they moved on.

It was only a few more yards before the footpath dissolved into a green mat of plants and leaf litter, trees seeming to sprout and grow taller and closer to where Castiel pulled them up. “This is where I leave you, Winchester. I’ve done my part, the rest is up to you.”

“How much further?”

“Don’t ask questions!” Castiel replied waspishly. “Questions will get you killed, and me too, since I’m along for the ride. This is all about instinct. Go with your gut, and never look back.”

“I went with my gut earlier and that didn’t work out too well,” Dean observed, thinking about the kiss at the base of the tree.

Castiel leveled him with a desperate look. “We’ll have plenty of time to sort that out later. Right now, you have to focus.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me!”

“Okay, geez! Alright, grumpy pants.”

Castiel huffed, relaxing back on his heels. “You’re such a pain in my ass, Winchester.”

Dean clicked his tongue in his cheek and winked at him before taking an experimental step, then another, avoiding twigs and finding the soles of his feet adjusting to the uneven ground. “Don’t forget the coin,” he heard Cas call from behind him, his voice already muted by the woods. “Don’t let go!” Refusing to look back, just as he’d been instructed, Dean simply threw a middle finger over his shoulder and marched on, Castiel’s answering laugh fading into the distance.

It wasn’t a track as much as a line through the trees he followed, the patterned trunks parting to show him the route. Beside him, flitting amongst the branches flew a bluebird, the company reassuring him more than he wanted to admit until eventually, the little bird struck out on its own as the forest thickened. Long, stringy creepers hung down, beginning to obscure the way and Dean had to shuffle the coin in his hands to try determining the best way to make sure he didn’t lose it while gripping the hilt of the sword. At least the vines gave way easily as he slashed at them and carved a passage until quite suddenly he emerged at a clearing, at the center of which sat a modest, red building nestled amongst the green shrubbery.

It took Dean a moment until he recognized it as the cabin his father took them too occasionally when he was a kid, before his mother died. It belonged to their Uncle Bobby—although Dean had never been sure they were actually related—but John had taught them how to fish and hunt while they spent weekends there. There were several key differences, however: from the roof rose a tree as if it grew right through the center of the building but instead of leaves, pages of books hung from the branches. Then when Dean stepped up to the door he found a ‘LIBRARY’ sign hanging above the transom.

“Weird,” he said to himself then pushed at the door, it opening with the same creak he remembered. Inside the walls were indeed lined with shelves stuffed with a rainbow of book spines. In the corner, sitting on a high pile of bean bags like the princess and the pea was his brother’s unmistakable head of thick, mahogany hair, the rest of him obscured by a large book about astronomy.

“Dean!” he said, looking up. “You made it!”

Bracing against a torrent of feelings, Dean smiled at him, healthy and vibrant. “Sure did, kid,” he said, then asked uncertainly “You ready to go?”

“Naw, I’m staying here. But it’s okay, I have all these books.”

“Okay, whatever you say Sammy. I do have some stuff to do.”

“You’ll come back for me, I know,” his brother replied. “Once you get the bad wolf.”

“Damn straight. I’ll get that fucker, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes lit up and he grinned. “I won’t tell Dad you said that word if you show me your coin.”

Dean chuckled. “Right here,” he assured, flipping it in his fingers but fumbling it, just managing to catch it in mid-air.

“Don’t lose it, you dork,” his brother warned, still cheerful, then turned a page of his book and went back to reading.

“See you soon, Sam,” he said, taking his cue to exit the tiny room and return to the forest.

Leaving the cabin behind Dean quickly found the makeshift path again and followed it, hacking and snapping branches noisily as he ventured deeper into the undergrowth. Several times he found the way dividing and was tempted to glance around to check his direction until he recalled Cas’s faraway voice yelling at him not to look from where he’d come. The first time he took his chances, but then the second he noticed a glistening crimson drop on a leaf to his right. Blood, he thought, reaching out on impulse to dab at it and transfer it on to his finger. He sniffed, and then not hesitating he tasted it, instantly rewarded with a sense of recognition along with knowing the route to choose.

Each time he came to a fork he found a mark of his blood, the trees growing denser as he went until he realized he was in jungle rather than any forest he recognized. Leathery wide leaves brushed against him and woody creepers that hooked at his feet. More and more he had to hack and slash his way with the sword, any path lost and his progress feeling slow until he was almost at a standstill, the green curtain closing in and threatening to suffocate him, pressing from all sides. Arms aching from lifting the sword, Dean took a moment to rest, sweat dripping from his forehead in rivulets down his face until he heard an eerie rustle to his left. Searching for the origin, he saw one, then three, then tens—no, hundreds of jewel-colored snakes, sliding over each other in the trees above his head.

“Oh no,” he thought, his phobic senses sending adrenaline through his limbs. “Fuck no!” Swinging and cutting his way as fast as he could, he threw every ounce he had to keep fighting ahead and away from the searching tongues and fangs of the serpents. All his muscles ached but he kept striking out through the leaves until finally, just when he thought his lungs couldn’t take any more he burst out of the jungle onto a sandy riverbank.

Collapsing on all fours in bright sunlight, his lungs heaved while the shaking in his limbs slowly subsided. It was only then he risked a look around, careful not to let his gaze drift behind. The river flowed from his right and though it was neither very wide nor deep, it appeared swift nonetheless. On the opposite bank, rushes grew thickly almost down to the water save for a slim path leading directly away.

“Right then,” he said, pulling himself up on unsteady legs, checking he still had his coin compressed in his palm. Dragging the sword he slid down the steep edge of the bank into the river, the cold water soothing his bruised feet. He bent down to take a drink, then dumped handfuls of the clear water on his head and neck before shaking the excess from his hair. Then he began stepping carefully across.

The bottom of the river was littered with small stones so he was able to grip on with his feet as the current picked up, and although it got as deep as his waist he made it to the other side without too much trouble, the crisp water leaving him feeling refreshed to boot. Ducking under the first rushes he climbed the bank and began down the shadowed path leading away. At first, he brushed through easily, but the further he went on the long thin leaves became finer and shaper until they began slicing little paper-like cuts into thighs, arms and across his knuckles. He swished them out of the way as best he could, leading with his hips and elbows but every step left stinging welts and beads of blood on his skin.

Then, just as he began to think he couldn’t take much more of the assault, the rushes merged with briars—long, leafy canes dotted with red berries that snagged at his clothing, pulling first threads and then tiny tears, some making it into his skin. Dragging the sword up once more he began trying to slice the long, barbed arms away, cutting and striking until he roared with pain at every stroke and he couldn’t tell what red seeping through his shirt was from the berries and which was his own blood. On and on he slashed, the thorns growing longer and the branches more resistant to his weapon. Screaming, he pushed and sliced and willed himself forward and forward some more until again, finally, he fell out into the open.

Lying on the ground he sobbed with pain and relief, wiping mixed blood and tears out of his stinging eyes. “Not long now, Dean,” he heard a voice say, a shadow falling across his face.

Blinking and swallowing his cries, he managed to focus long enough to see the outline of his neighbor. “Ms. Moseley?” he gasped, squinting to see her face, outlined with a halo as she shielded him from the sun.

“Get up, child. You have the whole world to see yet. It’s waiting for you.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, disorientated.

“Get up!” she commanded, her patience slipping. ‘I don’t have any time for your questions, Dean Winchester. You need to go out and find your answers your damn self.”

Dean held his breath, winced and dragged himself to sit. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered obediently. He looked at his outstretched legs covered in ribbons of drying blood and his stomach somersaulted, but he managed to outlast the nausea and gingerly stumble to his feet with the help of the sword, though once standing he hadn’t the energy to hold it.

“You’re a mess Dean. Go clean yourself up and when you’re finished, come by with Sam and I’ll make you both a milkshake.”

Dean blinked, finally managing to get a good look at her, standing patiently with him on a rocky outcrop. He hair was bound back by a wide, orange band and she wore a navy trenchcoat out of place in the tropical heat and expanse of ocean stretching out below. Her mouth, however, was set with her usual dignified determination.

“That would be awesome, thanks,” Dean agreed, and it would. It had been a while, but Missouri did make the best milkshakes he’d had anywhere, full of ice cream and topped with hand-whipped cream. “Uh, where?” he asked, mostly to himself. There wasn’t anywhere to go, except the edge off the ledge where they stood.

Missouri tipped her head in the same direction and shrugged noncommittally. “Okay,” he sighed, peeking to the edge and risking a look down. Below was the sea, wide and turquoise, simultaneously inviting and ominous. Not too far but far enough below that his stomach looped the loop again. “Do I need to show you this?” he asked, remembering the coin he still clasped as if his life depended on it—like it quite possibly did.

“Oh no, I have no business with that,” she dismissed. “But I don’t think you’ll need _that_ anymore,” she added, nodding at the sword several feet away on the ground.

“Good to know, thanks,” he said, then looked down again. “I’ve never been in the sea before.”

“On your way Dean. The world awaits!” Missouri smiled.

Dean nodded, then took a deep breath and jumped.

Down he went, down and down long enough he had time to think that it felt farther than it looked and reason it should really be the opposite when finally he broke the water, his feet and forearms smacking with the sharp contact before he sank, further and further down under the surface. Flapping his arms he managed to halt his descent, for one terrible second thinking he’d lost the coin in the process until he felt his thumb cramping from holding it in place. Then he began swimming, up and along, aiming for the sunlight glinting on the surface far above.

He swam and swam, the shimmering top of the ocean never seeming to come closer until his lungs began to complain. Doubling his paddling he willed himself up, the water around him making his spent limbs seem even heavier. Alongside him swam hundreds of tiny seahorses, their tiny curling tails and frilled wings accompanying his efforts and cheering him on despite their sometimes smudged sides and tiny, inquisitive faces. He would have stopped to savor their company except he was drowning. _I’m going to drown_ he thought, his kicks slowing in the water despite his wretched plea to make his legs work. _I’m drowning_. Then he gave himself one final push for the surface before he began to black out.

Coughing, Dean somehow spluttered into the air and gulped, oxygen pouring into his desperate lungs as he frantically trod water. After a few moments he was able to look and see he wasn’t far from a beach, so he leveled himself in the water and began to swim, the gathering waves helping to push him to the shore.

Exhausted, it was all he could do to crawl out of the water until his feet were just free of the tide before he collapsed and rolled to his back, covered in sand that scratched at his wounds.

Another shadow fell over him, making him open his eyes. “Well done, Dean,” said Naomi, her hair uncharacteristically loose and wild in the coastal breeze. She crouched and helped pull him up but he slumped against tide-washed sand. “You can give me the coin.” Dean blinked at her, trying to make his oxygen-starved brain catch up. ‘You do still have it, don’t you?” she asked sharply.

Dean pushed out his arm and turned his wrist, painfully unclenching his fingers. The coin sat there amid bruising and the imprint of the symbols from being held so tightly, welted white onto his palm.

“Oh, thank god,” she whispered, peeling it gently from his hand. “You worried me for a second there.”

“Sorry,” he rasped, his throat swollen and coarse. Castiel’s mother smiled and tendrils of light brown hair danced across her face. She was pretty, outside like this with her edges softened with a long loose-sleeved dress. “Is it over?” he asked.

“Almost,” she smiled, creases deepening at her eyes. “You can rest now, but not too long. You must wake up soon.”

“Wake up?” he repeated groggily, but she had already risen to her feet and was walking away, plowing through deep, golden sand.

He waited a moment, drinking in the feel of the deserted expanse of sun-warmed beach under his body, the sounds of the sea folding over and over on itself as it’s margin met the beach. He wanted to stay, but he knew he couldn’t. “Wake up?” he repeated to himself, and then with a blink, he was.

His eyes adjusted back to the soft light of the Novak’s bathroom, the candles cheerfully dancing their flames around him as they had when he last remembered. Now, though, three faces crowded over top of him, peering into his.

Meg was the first to speak. “Welcome back, Dean,” she said, her smile artful.

“Uh—” he started, disorientated. Dean looked down his chest to see he still sat in the bath, though the water was now lukewarm at best. It was only then, he realized, his tipped head lay over Castiel’s crossed calves, effectively in the boy’s lap as hands gently cupping the back of his scalp. The look on Castiel’s face however, was nothing like his grandmother’s. His features were still laced with shock and fear, and maybe wonder, all of which he tried to school away unsuccessfully as Dean lifted himself up.

“Let’s get you out, Dean,” said Naomi, bustling to the other end of the room to retrieve several towels. He was able to get to his knees but he wasn’t sure he could trust his legs, so he was grateful when Castiel and his mother assembled at under his arms to help extricate him from the bath to stand. The words ‘Rise and Shine!’ were imprinted into the cotton mat under his feet and Dean would have laughed if he had a single spare speck of energy to do so.

Naomi pulled one of the towels from her shoulder and draped it over his both of his, then left the other on the bath surround. “When you think you’re able, get dry and into some fresh clothes—Castiel has brought you some,” she advised, nodding at a pile on the chair near the door.

She tentatively left his side and he nodded to confirm he could stand, Castiel reluctantly peeling out from under Dean’s right arm to leave him on his own two feet. “Oh, here,” said Meg suddenly, fishing a tissue from the vanity and rushing forward to hold it to Dean’s nose.

“Oh,” he repeated, unaware a single trickle of blood had been escaping from it.

“Don’t worry, it’s normal,” the older woman assured. “It’s simply the pressure changes in your head,” she explained like it was something that happened every day.

Dean blotted at his nose until the tissue was mostly red, but the flow seemed to be halting. It was then he noticed the three faces staring at him intently again.

“What?” he asked hesitantly.

Naomi was first, stepping up and placing a hand on each of his shoulders. “Welcome, Dean,” she intoned, kissing him airily on the cheek.

Withdrawing to make way for her mother the old woman then moved forward, this time taking Dean’s face between her thickened hands and laying a kiss on his other cheekbone. ‘Welcome, Dean,” she repeated, still smug.

Dean raised his eyes to Cas, still struggling to compose himself, his black attire threatening to swallow him into the darkened corners of the room. Finally, he stepped in front and raised a timid hand, laying it below Dean's ear. “Welcome, Dean,” he said in a whisper before leaving a barely-there kiss at the corner of Dean’s mouth, just out of reach for him to catch despite Cas’s lips lingering there.

He shyly avoided Cas’s eyes as they lined up in front of him again like some bizarre ceremonial presentation. He half expected them to salute.

“So, it worked?” he asked. He didn’t exactly feel any different, but the women looked more than pleased with themselves.

Meg smiled her feline smile again. “Yes, it worked.”

 

 


	11. Hunt

 

 

Dried and dressed in a borrowed pair of sweats topped with a soft, dusky-blue tee, Dean scooped up the heap of his clothes and took a quick look around the room. Candles snuffed and replaced with white, electric downlighting, it had reverted to a normal bathroom and not a stage for a supernatural transformation, although apart from feeling wired he had yet to feel any confirmation of that.

Cas waited outside, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed just as casually as when he propped his hips on his bike in the mornings to watch the world go by before the morning bell. But the way he looked at Dean was anything but casual. “Here, let me take those,” he said, darting forward to take the pile from Dean’s hands.

“Take them where?”

“Your room. Where you’ll sleep,” Castiel answered gracelessly. “This way.”

Dean followed along the landing to the door opposite Castiel's near the head of the stairs. Pushing it open, Cas flicked the light with a deft elbow and deposited Dean’s clothing on a wingback chair in one corner. “How are you feeling?” he asked hesitantly as Dean scanned the room.

“Like I’ve been run over by a truck?” Dean replied. “And I’m on fire. But also, like...I am the fire,” he described, feeling the impressions out while Cas’s eyes widened.

“I’m told you should come downstairs,” the boy said stiffly. “There’s one last thing left to do, as well as eat if you want.”

“Do I fucking want!” Dean said with gusto and backed through the doorway. Cas barked a laugh, an oddly loud, nervous noise in the hushed house, then trailed him out.

Down in the living room, Dean sat at the voluptuously crafted dining table while Naomi brought him a tall glass of squeezed orange and a bowl of steaming soup, the latter he eyed disappointingly on behalf of his stomach. Nonetheless, he made short work of it, his legs feeling like they might even be able to carry him back up the stairs by the time he bit half into the slice of buttery homemade bread Naomi slid to him while she taking the empty bowl.

“Don’t rush, Dean,” Castiel’s mother chided. “Your body has been through a lot. You don’t want to burden it further.”

“Dean’s appetite is voracious, mother,” Cas offered from the couch across the room. “What? I’ve seen you in the cafeteria,” he argued, upon three pairs of questioning eyes landing on him.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed you watching me,” Dean volleyed back as he chewed, satisfied with the blush blooming on Castiel’s neck. He didn’t know when flirting with Cas in front of his family became something he was comfortable with but apparently, he was.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Cas’s grandmother's sly mirth along with fatigue etched in her face. It was probably the first time he’d seen her truly look her age. “When you’re finished, Dean,” she began pointedly, “there’s one last thing to complete. I know you’re weary, but we must consolidate your wish with your new strength while it's still fresh into the tool you’ll use.”

Dean swallowed. “Fresh? You mean it won’t always feel like this?” he questioned, the fizzing under his skin ebbing and flowing like a high-pitched version of the pulse he’d sensed in the tree.

“Think of it a little like gene regulation. A part of your brain has been unlocked, which in turn has altered your DNA. Now your cells must catch up, but in the meantime you’re unbridled. We can and should harness that energy,” Meg explained.

“Harness it into what?”

“This!” she said, reaching into a pocket to produce a small child's stamp like the ones Sam still sometimes accepted at the library. 

She held it out, palm up on the table. “A stamp?” Dean queried, leaning to peer at it and lifting a dubious brow at the simple smiley face etched on orange rubber.

“Your weapon,” Meg corrected. “ _Your_ mark.”

"My mark," he repeated absently, catching on. A hint of a sneer pulled at one corner of his mouth. "What do I need to do?” he added, then shoveled the last of the bread into his mouth. The combination of silken butter, bread soft like spun sugar and chewy crust almost eliciting a groan that he only held back because he caught the preoccupation on Cas’s face as he gawked.

“Give it your name and instruct it with your purpose," Meg advised.

“How?”

The old woman stood, taking a moment to steady herself before fishing in her pocket. “Are you ready?” she asked, pulling out a tissue and placing the stamp in it.

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” Dean said, getting out of his chair, realizing with more curiosity than revulsion that what Cas's grandmother was using to wrap the stamp was, in fact, the bloody remains of the tissue from his nosebleed that he thought he'd thrown away.

“Here,” she said. Dean lifted his hand and she dropped the tiny package in his palm, then curled his fingers over and placed hers around his fist. “You know what you want it to do. Simply tell it. But be precise, firm, and resolute.”

Dean shut his eyes and squeezed his hand until the wooden edges bit into his skin, then took a breath. “Stamp, I name you...Dean,” he began, feeling ridiculous. “You are my weapon." Squinting one eye open, Meg nodded encouragingly for him to continue. "You are to be my...uh, my instrument, and you will do as I bid. You are mine and mine alone,” he carried on, getting a feel for it. “You are to be my command laid on my enemy. Together we’ll smile as we plunge a hole in him through which the life he’s stealing from my brother will reverse and depart him until he’s nothing but a dried-up husk ready for me to kick into ash. You are mine, stamp, and my will is to end him, to obliterate him until he is nothing but a greasy stain in the dirt underneath my boots.”

Realizing he'd raised his voice, he cautiously opened his eyes to the silent room. “Um, was that enough?” he asked, nervous again. Castiel’s mother and grandmother looked inquiring and admiring respectively, while Cas’s expression was wretched.

“Well done, Dean. You can discard that tis—” the old woman broke off, wobbling on the spot so violently that Dean darted his free hand to steady her at her elbow.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine,” she interrupted, her daughter nonetheless rounding the table to support her. “I just need to rest. It’s been a long evening,” Meg smiled weakly. “But we are finished for today.”

Dean peered into her clouded face. “What happens next?” he urged because he needed to know.

The old woman’s gaze cleared as it met his. “Tomorrow, we hunt,” she announced fiercely.

A grin found its way onto Dean’s face at the glint in her eyes. “Come,” Naomi said, drawing her away. “Castiel, can you make sure Dean has everything he needs? I’ll finish up down here once I have my mother settled.”

Cas rose to his feet from the floral sofa and lifted his eyes, asking softly, “Dean, are you ready?”

“Sure, I guess,” he agreed, the fatigue he’d felt before he’d eaten creeping back into his bones. “Night,” he called to the departing women.

“Goodnight, Dean. Sleep well,” Naomi returned over her shoulder.

Dean pocketed the stamp then followed Cas out and up the stairs, his host remaining quiet until they reached a door halfway down the long, upper hallway. Opening it revealed a linen closet from which Cas pulled a towel set, depositing the bundle in Dean’s hands. Then he gestured to the next door along. “Guest bath is just here. There should be a toothbrush in the cabinet. Just poke around to find what you need.”

“Thanks,” Dean replied, frustrated Cas wouldn’t make eye contact.

“Is there anything else?”

“Nah, I’m good, I think.”

Castiel folded his arms, then unfolded them again and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Oh, if you develop a headache, which you might, you should find something in the bathroom for that too. Middle drawer, if I recall,” he said, finally darting a glance at Dean. “I’m just across the hall, as you know. Just call if you can’t find the light switch or whatever. This old house is weird sometimes. It thinks itself a comedian.”

“Cas, I’m fine,” Dean said hoping his meaning was emphatic.

“Uh—”

“Stop fussing, Cas.”

That snapped him out of it. “Fussing? I’m not _fussing_ , Dean,” he objected.

Dean simply returned Castiel's indignant expression with a sanguine one. “G’night, Cas," he offered.

Cas sighed, then doubtfully bit his bottom lip as if choosing what to say, settling on “Night, Dean,” before bypassing him with a wide berth and darting away into his room.

Shaking his head, Dean let himself in the bathroom, tossed the bloody tissue and abluted before heading back to the guest room, sparing a glance in Cas’s open door. Castiel was slouched in his desk chair and staring at the ceiling but caught Dean’s movement, flashing him an arrested glance. Dean turned away and closed the door behind him with relief at finally being alone, despite being in a strange—and strangely formal—bedroom, far more manicured than the rest of the house. Pleated velvet drapes hung across the window from floor to ceiling, flanked on each side by twin crafted highboys, their walnut veneers gleaming. The bed looked similarly antique, with a solid, paneled headboard and blanket-rail foot, each with solidly turned legs partly obscured by the luxurious burgundy and gold damask comforter.

The only thing in the room that didn’t look like it came out of a magazine page was the cat, curled in a tight circle in the bottom left corner of the bed. “Fluffy, what are you doing here?” Dean whispered to her, to which she briefly opened one amber eye like a dragon who didn’t want to be disturbed. “C’mon,” he sighed, padding over to pick the animal up with the intention of leaving her outside his door so she could find her regular place of repose. However, having never had his own pets he was always awkward around people’s, and when he attempted to lift her she staked her claim on his bed by immediately becoming a limp sack, her weight seeming to slip each side of his grasp like she was made of fur covered goop. She also hooked a claw into the fabric on the bed for good measure.

Wincing at the pull she created in the ornate bedspread, he relinquished her back down. “Fine, you win,” he said, pushing off the borrowed sweatpants, remembering to retrieve the stamp from their folds before lobbing them at the chair. Noticing his phone had been left for him on the nearest bedside, he exchanged the stamp for it but not before he took another look at the plain object, thinking to himself that it looked different from before even if he couldn't pinpoint in what way. Too tired, he dumped the observation as quickly as he'd made it and found the switch for the overhead light. Rounding the bed by the light of his screen, Dean pulled aside the covers and folded himself in before shining the dim glow on the cat, frowning at her. “Just don’t fuck with me, okay?” he ordered, to which she lazily curled her head under and rolled on to her back, her disdain for his concerns clear in her elegant stretch.

Wiping the notifications from his phone—there was nothing from his father and little else was a concern—he put it on the bedside stand and rolled over. Shutting his eyes, however, proved problematic. The day had proved eventful to a dizzying degree and his brain unhelpfully provided replays. Dean hadn’t really had a chance to think about his internal journey since he’d emerged from the bath, but now the memories invaded in broad, color-filled splashes: the pain, the sense of desperation, his mother. He thought of his mother all the time but they were hazy, yellowed memories like faded polaroids, not ones where he could feel her warmth and smell the sunshine in her hair and it made him ache in a way he hadn’t in years.

Tossing and turning and becoming more frustrated at not being able to calm either his mind or his nerves, he was on the verge of getting up and going looking for a glass of water and some Advil when his phone vibrated on the bedside cabinet.

 

 **You still okay?** the text from Castiel read.

 

 ** _Can’t sleep_ **he replied honestly, then:  
**_If you’re looking for your cat, I’m her favorite now_**

 

**Want me to come get her?**

 

Dean was still ruminating on a reply when there was a _tap-tap_  at the door.

It opened to reveal Castiel's moonlit silhouette. “I’ll get her out of here for you. Otherwise, she’ll wake you up by chasing your feet in the middle of the night," Cas said, inching into the room.

“Okay, sure,” he conceded. Castiel, however, remained lurking at the end of the bed, hesitant and foreboding. “How long does this last?” Dean asked without thinking about it.

“This?”

“This sensory overload. My mind won't shut off and I feel…I feel everything,” he described weakly.

“Hours, maybe days? Possibly forever? I'm told it's a subjective experience.”

Puffing a dissatisfied noise, Dean laced his fingers behind his head and pushed back into the feathered pillow, stretching his chest and aching shoulders.

“I might be able to help,” Cas offered cautiously.

“Help how?”

Castiel sighed, then shuffled to the head of the bed before arranging himself on his side atop the covers. “Think of somewhere you want to be, right now,” he suggested.

“Um, I dunno,” replied Dean, because his brain leaped to attention with a hundred possibilities, several of them colored by Cas’s body stretched out so close by.

He kept his gaze resolutely planted on the ceiling. “How about the beach?” Cas tried.

“Beach?”

“From your vision. You wanted to stay, right?”

“How do you—?” Dean sputtered.

“I was there. Kind of.”

“Kind of? How often are you gonna be able to poke around in my head, Cas?” he asked, half afraid of the answer either way.

"Dean, it was a unique circumstance,” Castiel replied with obvious patience. “But if you trust me I can help take you back there. If you wish.”

Dean finally risked a look at him, his features barely outlined. “How?” he breathed.

Castiel’s whisper caused a draft through Dean’s lashes. “Close your eyes.”

He did, then waited as fingertips gently came to rest on the top of his chest near his shoulder. Nothing happened at first until finally, like a pinhole camera, a tiny, round window onto his beach opened in his mind. Gradually, the circle expanded, the picture growing wide then encroaching around him, blurry details crystalizing into shape one by one: grains of sand under his back, the delicate flutter of a breeze sweeping heat from his skin and the swaying shadows from the palm fronds above causing the sunlight to flicker over his eyelids.

Dean breathed deeply, the salt tang on the air flowing down into his lungs as he felt his pulse slow, his sore muscles relaxing and molding to his nest in the sun-baked sand.

“Now look,” Cas said expectantly. Dean frowned, not wanting to break the spell when he was just feeling the benefits but blinked his eyes open anyway.

To his astonishment, he was still there on the sand. Not in real terms—it was more like being in a hologram, but he could still sense and feel everything he had with his eyes closed.

His mouth fell open, then spanned into a grin as a “whoah” escaped on his breath. Head jacked up on a bent elbow, Cas lifted his face and shut his eyes just as a broad-winged sea bird caught an updraft above their heads, letting out a mournful cry as it spiraled away. “This is awesome,” Dean admitted, giving credit where credit was due.

Still in shadow, Castiel opened his eyes again and smiled down at him. “I like your beach,” he whispered.

“Dude, you are welcome anytime,” Dean replied, still full of wonder.

He needed to know for future reference how to do this trick and was just about to say so when he was stopped short by Cas leaning close. Dropping his mouth to Dean’s, it took several stuttered presses in the dark for their lips slot together in a long, fragile kiss.

Castiel broke it just as the tenderness threatened to turn less than chaste and a lightning charge sliced Dean in half. “Cas?” Dean breathed, fighting his way out of the wave of sensations even as part of him wanted to let them pull him under. He couldn't help question the apparent turnaround from Castiel's skepticism of the afternoon, eons ago.

Unable to make out his expression, Dean immediately he missed the hand Castiel slid from his chest. “I swear, I could feel the bones of your skull move, Dean,” he began. “I—I thought you might die right there in my hands.”

_Oh._

Dean gulped, letting Cas’s admission percolate. “But I didn't,” he assured gently. “I'm here. And now...now I'll need your help.”

Cas groaned and slumped back on the next door pillow. “I'm not sure I should be teaching you anything.”

“Why not?”

“Because in _my_ life, I don't know yet whether I'm the hero or villain.”

Dean frowned in the dark, upset probably more than he should be. “Cas—” he protested, his turn to prop up on one arm.

“You might have to decide too. Most of us do, at some point,” Castiel interrupted.

Dean scrambled around for words to lighten the mood but instead more sinister ones found their way out. “Are you scared of me, Cas?”

Cas appeared to think longer on the answer than Dean considered necessary. “No, but promise me l can always be on your side, Winchester. Because you are frightening.”

“And yet you just kissed me,” Dean said, the provocation partly ensuing from the abrupt recognition parts of him were very much in favor of more making out and just _more_ in general even though he didn't trust any of his feelings yet, any more than he trusted Cas's.

“I did, didn’t I? I’ve always had terrible judgment,” Castiel retorted, scattering the indecisive pieces of Dean’s yearning in the process. Letting out a growl, Cas wiped his face. “I’ll save you the trouble of kicking me out bed for that remark,” he added, rolling off and standing in one fluid motion. Dean wasn’t sure it counted as an apology but he was more aware of feeling the absence of Cas’s solid warmth next to him just as the heat from the whimsical sun was fading as well, the mirage around him gradually losing its vibrancy. “Night, Winchester,” the boy said, picking Fluffy up with substantially more success than Dean’s earlier attempt.

Dean didn’t answer as Castiel left the room, shutting out the slice of moonlight and leaving him alone with the retreating remains of the lapping waves.

 

 

 

 

“So, what now?” Dean asked, pushing his plate away with a deeply sated sigh after his second round of helpings.

He didn’t remember falling asleep and though his mind felt refreshed, when he’d tentatively touched his feet to the carpet it became clear right away his muscles and joints were laboring under the impression they’d endured at least some of the physical trials of the mental journey the night before. However, when he’d ventured downstairs, he’d been met with a full cooked breakfast laid out on the table, whereupon he’d helped himself to scrambled eggs, a wedge of toast, and tomatoes and thick slices of ham that had been grilled. He'd ummed and ahhed between two or three hash browns before deciding on the latter, much to the restrained amusement of Castiel who mostly sat cradling a mug of black coffee with his brow set to a distinctly vexed angle.

“We need a plan,” Meg said, sat across the table from Castiel, her hands steepled under her chin.

"What kind of plan?"

One of Castiel’s eyebrows relinquished its contempt for the morning and shot toward the ceiling. “Grandmother, don’t be fallacious. You already have a plan.”

“Castiel, don't be cute,” she playfully retorted. "Of course, I already have a plan. But we won't be able to put it into motion unless I can locate this tumorous insect we need to extinguish.”

“Oh, mother,” Naomi muttered in between dabbing her lips with a napkin, but Dean couldn’t help but get behind the old woman’s descriptive language.

“Uh—” he interjected into the family jousting, “—so how do we do that? I brought something of Sam’s to help.”

Meg sat back in her chair. “Excellent, would you like to get it for me and let’s see what we can do, shall we?”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, falling into old habits as he pushed back his chair. He could probably get used to this weird domesticity when it came with sumptuous breakfasts but he didn’t think he’d ever be comfortable with the kind of folk who used cloth napkins at eight in the morning.

Scooting through the house to the coat closet, he located Wroof in the pocket of his jacket. “Sorry for whatever we have to do to you, bud,” he whispered, tucking the stuffed toy into the curl of his arm like a football.

By the time he returned Naomi and Castiel had cleared the table of everything but the cloth, so he sat back down and pushed the limp animal across to Meg. “Sam’s most prized possession,” he explained, adding guiltily “he's had it since he was a baby and he never goes anywhere without it.”

“Alright, that’s a good start,” she replied examining Wroof closely, giving the toy a sniff and arranging its legs to sit on the table. “Let me just go get what we need. This Azazel shouldn't have gone far. His possession would be difficult to command from more than a few miles away and from what you've told me, he seems far too arrogant to make himself scarce.”

Dean took the chance to check his phone while Meg left the room. “Any news?” Cas's mother asked him softly as she folded the table cloth into an ornate bureau.

“No news is good news, I guess,” he answered, issuing her with a brave smile. He had little choice but to hope that was the case, but he also had to focus on getting the job done, and soon. Only then could he turn his attention back to Sam and hope it wasn't too late.

Cas reappeared from the kitchen and landed a glance at Dean. Neither of them had managed to catch each other's eyes over breakfast and Dean was as much to blame this time as Castiel, pretending to find something on the wall or the grains scattered at the base of the pepper mill much more interesting when Cas's risked settling on him.

Dean was saved from reciprocating it as Meg returned and requested her grandson's aid, unfolding a large and well-used paper map that ended up spanning the whole width of the table. Then she passed Castiel two of the four thick and yellowed candles she'd juggled. Together they placed them in a cross formation on the map, until Dean realized they actually stood for the four points of the compass.

“This like witchy GPS?” he asked, bemused.

Meg winked back, her talisman's swinging from her neck as she leaned forward to light each wick. “Any garden variety witch worth their salt can perform a location spell, and that works to our advantage. If this succeeds, we shouldn't have to invoke our extra expertise, which in turn means there's zero chance of our target being able to sense our search.”

Dean had a lot to learn. “Sounds good,” he answered, intrigued.

“Sometimes the simplest methods work best,” she explained before turning her attention on Castiel. “Don't think I didn't see that roll of your baby blue eyes, young man. Not all of us are as theatrically inclined as you!” Thinking of Cas's spectacularly engineered home movie for Dean's benefit the night before, he shared a private, conciliatory smile in Cas's direction and was rewarded with a timid one in return.

Meg laid the toy carefully in both palms like it was an offering. “Since this object is infused with so much of your brother's love and essence, hopefully, it will offer us a direct line to follow to the parasite feeding off those very qualities.” Dean winced and Meg paused to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, Dean,” she added, without the usual dry amusement in her tone. “Now, I must ask you to not think of your brother's predator while I'm summoning his location. We don't want to risk the slightest chance that he might detect you.”

“Uh, okay.” He hunted round in his brain for a backup subject if his thoughts wandered and settled on trying to remember Jayhawks player stats. In the end, it only took a minute or so of the old woman concentrating—Wroof in one hand and one of the talismans dangling from the other over the map—for her to open her eyes and grin.

“He's brazen, I'll give him that! He's just across the river in North Lawrence. But he's masked himself so I can't get an exact lock on him.” Dean's stomach began to sink, but Meg carried on. "Nevermind, we'll just have to throw a little more muscle into it. Naomi, Dear, would you be so kind as to fetch the pitcher?”

Her daughter rose from the head of the table where she'd sat silently throughout, returning from the kitchen shortly after with a large but squat metal jug, half full of what appeared to be plain water. This time, the old women kept her eyes open, looking deep into the contents while murmuring words Dean couldn't make out, just as Cas had done when he'd called the birds in the clearing.

Growing tenser as time went on, Dean hunched in his chair until Meg slumped down into hers. “I've got him,” she said, smirking triumphantly in Dean's direction, who let out an explosive breath. “Castiel, can you get me paper and a pen?” She scribbled on the memo square Cas brought to her and then slid it to Dean. “You'll find him here.”

Dean looked at the simple address on the yellow paper, adrenaline building. He knew the street. “Can I go? Now?”

“Castiel should go with you,” Meg said, nodding.

“Cas?” Dean said, surprised. “But won't he sense that Cas is, you know—”

“I think you can use that to your advantage.”

“Sorry?” Dean asked, not following.

“I’m the decoy,” Cas answered shrewdly. Dean gave him a puzzled look. “If he sees me, he's more likely to be distracted from recognizing you.”

“So he focuses on you and then, what? I just need to get close enough to stamp him? Won't he recognize me too?”

“It's a bright day,” said Naomi, speaking up. “Wear sunglasses and he'll not be able to see your newly acquired nature. At least not immediately.”

“Appeal to his conceit,” Meg suggested. “Knock on his door and act distraught. Offer yourself instead, beg for mercy on bended knee if you have to. Then mark him.”

“Okay.” That sounded doable. It would hardly be his first hustle. “Then what?”

“Once he's marked, you can reverse the process and then he's yours to eliminate as you please.”

“I suggest the two of you leave him as quickly as you can,” Naomi added. “He could be unpredictable when he realizes he's cornered.”

Dean turned his gaze on Cas, whom underneath the indolent, detached slouch had the alertness of someone spoiling for a fight. “You up for this?” he asked riskily.

Castiel's brow arched. “Someone has to keep you from going off half-cocked,” he sparred.

“Boys,” Naomi warned as her mother hid a titter of a laugh behind one hand. “You both need to be cautious. Castiel—hang back, and Dean, I know you might feel somewhat invincible right now but you're very vulnerable if he catches wind of your plan.”

“Yes Ma'am,” he assured her.

 

 

A half-hour later Dean sat behind Cas as he quietly pulled up the bike to the curb in the leafy street, three doors down from the address Meg identified as where Azazel was.

“Is that him?” Cas asked incredulously, seeing a figure in the front garden.

Dean knew him instantly. “Yes,” he crisply.

“He's pruning roses!” Cas exclaimed.

Dean took off his helmet and replaced it with the sunglasses Castiel had lent him. “And?”

“And, you don't prune roses in mid-spring!” Dean looked derisively down his nose and over the rims. “What?” Cas demanded.

“Nerd,” he said flatly, shaking his head. Nerves winding tighter, he took a breath and pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Looks like we're doing this in the open.”

“Not a bad option,” Cas remarked, similarly tightly drawn. “You ready?”

Squeezing the stamp, Dean tucked loosely against the heel of his palm and nodded. “Let's go.”

Carefully, they stalked along the sidewalk then crossed the street, coming up behind Azazel as he tended the plants in the yard of the almost hilariously ordinary suburban house.

Dean didn't need to be able to see Cas to know he lurked just off his left shoulder, but he knew it had to be himself who spoke.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, can we have a word?”

Azazel turned, confusion and shock rippling over his face. Then his expression smoothed and a smile slithered onto his lips. “Ah look, it's the brother!” he cried. “What can I do for you?”

 

 

 


	12. Turning Point

 

Every hair on end, Dean’s jaw still dropped at seeing Azazel’s face again. This time, there was no nauseating smell but his stomach nevertheless churned with revulsion.

The creature had changed. The once blotchy and sallow skin stretched across his prominent cheekbones now looked plump and rosy and his hair had grown—not just in length, but thicker and gleaming in the sunlight. The pouches under his jaw and eyes had filled out while the teeth bared behind the vulpine smile had lost their tarnished cracks.

Perhaps most shocking of all was the self-congratulatory sheen to his eyes.

“Dean, isn’t it?” Azazel said. “Young Samuel has whispered your name many a time.”

Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut, what little air he’d been holding depleted of oxygen. Azazel wasn’t even trying to hide who and what he was.

Clenching the fist enveloping the stamp, Dean readied to throw a punch at that too-square jaw. It was only the barely audible hiss of warning from Cas which reigned in his temper. “Yeah,” he ground through gritted teeth.

“And I see you’ve brought me a witch!” the man carried on, jabbing the pruning shears in Castiel's direction. “Fascinating! I haven’t seen a healthful male specimen in years—especially one as powerful as this one.” He paused to survey Cas with a cautious eye, then returned his attention to Dean. “You’ve done well, young Mr. Winchester, figuring this all out. But I’m afraid to say it’s too late. Your dear brother is almost gone and no spell or—” he paused to jiggle his free hand dismissively in the air, “—whatever can undo it.”

Azazel’s words landed right where he intended, shattering Dean’s heart and spraying the pieces like shrapnel around his chest. It was only Cas’s hand landing on his shoulder that kept him from crumpling in on himself. “You’ve quite stroked and bruised my ego in one fell swoop,” Cas said amiably. “But I am aware of my limitations.”

“So few people are!” Azazel agreed merrily, then his tone turned on a dime. “You can stay where you are, young witch,” their prey warned at Cas edging closer to Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m not going to interfere,” Cas acquiesced, taking a step back again. “Dean here has a proposition for you. I’m simply accompanying to help him negotiate.”

Azazel’s eerie eyes flickered with curiosity. “A proposition? Well, this is a first. Most have no clue where to start looking for an explanation for their...predicament. Really, you’re making me feel quite peculiar recognizing me like this.”

A twisted kind of amusement rose up in Dean’s throat as he watched the Azazel managing to somehow be pompous and fawning at the same time. Suddenly the garden, the tree-lined street with its green canopy over symmetrical driveways, even Castiel still hovering behind fell away and he could see everything behind the obscene transformation of the facade before him. There was nothing but a collection of appetites that had acquired a human body, singular and weak, but insatiable as it knew nothing else but take, and take some more. It looked on Dean like a bird of prey but its eyes were hollow, unscrupulous beyond its own needs for survival.

Stomach feeling again like it wanted to empty itself on the creature’s leather boat shoes, Dean managed to turn his grimace into a sneer. “Who do you think you’re fooling?” he asked.

Azazel’s gaze narrowed, his genial air evaporating. “Most people, in fact. I’m very old, you see, and if there’s one thing about humanity that doesn’t change it’s what people will overlook when their minds can’t cope with what’s right in front of them.” He drew himself up, the pink tip of his repugnant tongue running over his bottom lip. “I’m growing bored, boy. Tell me what you mean to, or you and your warlock boyfriend can leave.”

Dean lowered his head, just enough to appear submissive while careful not to make his eyes visible over the shades. “Please,” he began, then cleared his throat like it was catching with grief, “can you let my brother go? Take someone else.”

“Oh, Dean. It’s not that simple.”

“With all due respect, I’m told it is,” Dean lied on the spot. “My brother—my Dad needs him. He’ll never survive if Sam dies, not after our Mom—” he broke off, beginning to choke up for real. “Please,” he repeated, rolling the stamp forward into his grip and taking a pleading half-step forward.

Azazel matched it with a reflexive step back, but his reply was anything but defensive. “You mistake me for someone who can be bargained with,” he countered. “You see, your brother was the perfect find and you all but delivered him to me. My tastes have become...refined, shall we say. Babes, both new and still in their mothers—plump with hope and hormonally enraptured happiness. Toddlers living in every moment, inquisitive little sponges that they are. But my absolute favorite is Samuel’s age—curious and energetic but with just enough awareness of the world to see life for the game of chance it is, and to embrace it regardless.”

Trying not to visibly recoil, Dean squashed down his guilt and horror and pressed on. “I thought—can you consider me?” he said.

“You?”

He didn’t have to act, shaking as he was with tension and loathing, sweat gathering on his forehead and between his shoulder blades. “I’m healthy and strong. I am my little brother’s world and he’s mine, but if you, uh—accept me in his place, I’ll give myself to you. Willingly. To do whatever you want.” The creature started, his attention regarding Dean warily as he appeared to cogitate.

“He knows what you are,” Cas chimed in. “Don’t you think it would be entertaining? Having someone who acknowledges and respects you? Is repelled by you and yet docile and obeisant?”

Azazel puffed derisively. “And you’re just going to let him?”

Cas indulged in a dejected sigh. “Look at him,” he replied, conspiratorial. “He’s positively made to give himself to someone. I _wish_ it was me. But you hold the better cards.”

Dean was half-aware he was going to have to take that proclamation up with Cas later, but he continued to laser focus on his target even while he pretended to sniffle onto his sleeve.

The man pursed his mouth and let his eyes fall from Dean’s face to his feet and back again, sending a shiver up Dean’s rigid spine. “You’re a mess, boy,” he said eventually. “I’ll tell you what, since this has been an absolute treat for me, I’m willing to offer you a choice instead.”

Apprehension chilled Dean's blood. “A choice?”

“Well I was going to string your brother along for a few more days, but you can choose to ask me to end it for him right now.”

“Now?” Dean repeated thinly, seething underneath his fear.

“Yes. You go and wrack your witch’s brain for a last-hope cure while letting nature take its course, shall we say. Or, I can finish things now. Mercifully, at your behest. Samuel is really quite lonely with only me for company, beautifully suffering as he is in the dark.”

Azazel smiled again, a horrid, rapacious line curving his pink lips and Dean heard a disgusted breath expel itself from Cas, but he didn’t let himself pause to dwell on the monstrosity of the offer. “Please,” he said instead. “Let Sam go and take me.”

He took a half step forward and then collapsed onto one knee. “Please!” he hoarsely begged again.

“Oh for pity’s sake, stop sniveling,” Azazel said, unaware Dean was almost within striking distance. “Stay there, witch!” he barked at Cas. “I can feel your power from here. This boy is tainted with it.”

“Dean, are you alright?” Cas said tersely. Dean couldn’t tell if he was acting or genuine but he kept pretending to hold back tears anyway, chanting coarse pleas for Sam at the ground.

“Let me see you,” Azazel said then, his tone bored, “How am I supposed to know what you have to offer if I can’t see your eyes. Take those glasses off.” But Dean simply clutched one arm around his stomach as if holding himself together at the seams.

It was then Azazel let out a displeased sigh. “Fine! Come here and I’ll do it,” he snapped and that was all Dean needed. Lurching forward, he pounced as the man bent in anticipation of taking the sunglasses from Dean’s nose, the naked skin on the back of his meaty hand right there in front of Dean’s face as if waiting for the stamp that painted then sank inexorably into his skin.

Dean scrambled back out of arm’s reach, making it to his feet in time to watch the disbelief square itself on the man’s face. “What did you do!” he cried, grasping at his wrist, mouth aghast. Dean still held his breath but watched as the stamp’s indentation tattooed itself into the back of his hand, morphing and infiltrating through the layers of skin until its grin was thick and black.

“You invited me,” Dean stated flatly, all traces of weeping gone. “Now you’re marked.”

“What! How—?”

Cas sidestepped to take the frames from Dean’s face, placing them flamboyantly on himself and revealing Dean’s full claim and the peril of Azazel’s situation to him. Dean lifted his chin as he looked at his victim. “You’re my bitch, now,” he said gratuitously.

“I don’t underst—when did you? You can’t be— Take it off!” the man’s stutter mutated into a yell, all his smugness wiped out and replaced with horror, loud and desperate in the quietude of the suburban morning.

Cas merely looped a loose arm over Dean’s shoulders. “Let’s go, Dean. Time to let this miscreation reflect on his choices.”

“Take it off!” Azazel repeated, stumbling and incensed. “Now! Take it off!”

“Let’s GO,” Cas repeated, emphatically this time, urgency in the squeeze of his fingers into the top of Dean’s shoulder. They turned and first scurried, then ran out of the front yard and along the grassy berm until they reached the bike. Allowing himself a look back, Dean located no trace of the man.

“Where’d he go?” he asked, sliding the clip of his helmet home.

“I vote we don’t stick around to find out,” replied Cas, swinging his leg over and starting the engine. Dean seated himself behind as it revved before they took a sharp u-turn and blasted off into the sunshine.

 

 

Dean clung to Cas's back as they hurtled around corners. He didn't even know where Cas was headed but the constriction of the helmet soon had him gasping for air until he had to tap Cas urgently on his shoulder, calling for him to pull over as the feeling of suffocation swelled.

Castiel changed down and braked, steering off the road and into one of the spaces designated for the playground a few yards away. Dean backed hurriedly off the bike and fumbled at the catch for the helmet, ripping it off his head and dropping it on the grass verge before staggering over the low rail fence bordering the park. Doubling over, he tried to catch his breath and waited, for the third time that morning, to see whether he was going to throw up his regretful breakfast or not.

“Dean?” he heard nearby. His pulse began to slow and he concentrated on inhaling, slow measured breathing that eventually brought his panic into line.

At some point, Cas had drawn closer and begun rubbing his back. “I’m okay,” Dean sighed, willing himself to stand straight again and face his friend, his cheeks hot. “Sorry.”

Cas simply shook his head, concern making way for a lopsided smile before he looked over to the nearby swing where a mother and her little girl were playing and regarding them casually. “You were amazing back there,” he said absently into the middle distance. “You had me fooled.”

“Really?” was all Dean could manage at first. Cas finally looked back at him. “I thought I was gonna barf the whole time. But you? Your Mom is right: you’re a dramatic asshole."

Shrugging, Cas pulled a face and retaliated at Dean's sheepish smirk with “Says Mr. ‘you’re my bitch now’,” before returning the smile. Gradually, their mouths pulled wider and wider still until out of nowhere they were both laughing, hysterical wheezes escaping from each of them so violently they could barely stand.

Among the play structures, the woman pulled her daughter away and encouraged her into the stroller before making her way to the path that meandered around the back of the park. “She probably thinks we’re skipping school and getting high,” Cas remarked, gathering control of himself while he watched her striding off.

Dean managed to turn off the faucet on his giggling and take a sober breath to find Castiel eyeing him inquisitively. An indulgent quirk played at the corner of Cas's mouth, so Dean lobbed another grin while he tracked the late morning sunlight electrifying the blue in his companion’s eyes. Something plausible and light swelled in the space between them, densifying the longer they held each other’s stare even as they became conscious of it.

Castiel finally dropped his self-effacing gaze with a rueful sigh, breaking the deadlock. “You did it,” he said to Dean instead, stating the obvious.

“I did,” Dean noted, adding, “We made a good team.”

“We did,” Castiel accepted with a tilt of his head. “It’s a long way from over and we need to stay alert, but you have him where you want him.”

“Mmm,” Dean hummed, not quite ready to let himself feel any relief yet.

“So, where to now?”

Pulling his phone from his pocket, a message from his father signaled their intermission was over, the clock on Sam’s fate ticking once more.

“The hospital,” he replied.

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Dean stood once again at the sheer front face of Lawrence Memorial having been left there by Castiel. “So, um...I’ll keep in touch,” he’d promised before Cas had ridden away, leaving him to ruffle his hair out of its helmet-bidden recline before broaching the wide automatic doors.

The elevator ride seemed to take forever, his finely tuned nerves building until he reached the acute care reception. Letting the nurse lead him to his brother’s glass-fronted room, he had to take a moment before he stepped in to meet his father’s haggard face.

“Dean,” he said thickly, leaping up to draw Dean into a bear hug, the ferocity of which took him by surprise.

“Hey, Dad,” he said into the curl of John’s shoulder, letting his dad’s frame sink against his own. “How’s he doin’?”

John clapped him on the back as he finally released them both. “He had a bad turn just before dawn. I thought...we thought he wasn’t gonna make it.” John stopped, his mouth screwing unhappily. “But he pulled through and has held in there,” he added, putting his hands on his slim hips and darting a tentative look at Sam’s prone form.

Dean kneaded the top of his father’s arm and finally let himself do the same. Sam looked tiny in the long bed. Too still and hooked up to a variety of monitors and drips, tubes flowing from his mouth and avian-thin wrists. A part of Dean barely recognized him as the child whom only a week ago had wrestled him to the living room floor in a game of ‘bear fight’. Now a medical conundrum, a collection of vital signs, a tragedy made worse for the mystery of his affliction.

“S’ok if I talk to him?” he asked, stepping towards his brother.

“Sure. He’d like that,” John said, collapsing back into the chair to the side of the room.

Dean shed his jacket and hung it on the seat at the head of the bed where, thankfully, John couldn’t see his face. Then he laid a hand over Sam’s bicep and whispered softly, “Hey, Sammy. I’m here, and this time I’m not leaving until we see this through, you hear? Hang in there, kiddo.” He closed his eyes and began to think of the commands he'd given the stamp, repeating the words he’d said aloud in the Novak’s living room just as Meg had instructed him to do before he and Cas had left on their hunt that morning. He couldn’t remember more than scraps, but the old witch had assured him it was the intent that mattered most, and that his mark would respond to his will.

He couldn’t wait one minute longer to work on reversing Azazel’s consumption and drive out the smell he could now only faintly detect.  _Hear me, my weapon_ he began in his head, thinking of the small, innocuous-looking stamp he’d held last night after his changeover. _You are my instrument laid on my enemy. Strike a hole in him where he cannot reach and let me draw the life he’s stealing and return it to my brother._

Over and over he repeated it. He lifted his other hand to find Sam’s, limp and covered in tape holding an IV line in place, holding it firmly as he sought the connection with the stamp. Finally, just when the first doubts skittered through his mind he felt a pressure, feather-light but insistent at the base of his skull and then a warmth trickling through his forearms. He imagined it dripping like toffee dropped into cool water, slipping into Sam’s body and circling through and around his heart, nourishing and restoring every cell it touched.

Once he was satisfied the flow was even, he dropped a kiss to Sam’s forehead and reluctantly let go. Meg had advised it would continue autonomously once it was established. Dean would simply need to check in and occasionally renew the bond with his mark.

Scraping the chair to the side, he leaned forward and faced his father where he sat a couple of yards away. “How you holding up, Dad?” he asked.

“Better now you’re here,” John replied, and Dean hadn’t heard him sound so frail in a long time. “I shouldn’t’ve told you to stay away. I thought it would be better for you, but we’re a family, and we’re stronger together.”

Dean nodded. It was probably the most effusive his father had been, certainly in recent memory. “Well, I’m here now,” he answered. “Hey, why don’t you go home? Have a nap in a decent bed. I’ve got this for the next few hours.”

A nurse strode in, giving them both a cursory smile before taking the usual readings and scribbling notes before he left again without a word. “You sure?” John challenged, having debated the idea for the past few minutes.

“Yeah, Dad. I’ll call you the second anything happens,” Dean reassured, the question of whether there might be a bottle of bourbon lurking in the house passing—unwelcome—through his mind. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it if there was. “You’ve been cooped up in here for more than two days now.”

John’s face melted as if he’d needed permission to take time for himself. “Okay,” he replied, surprising Dean with his lack of protest. “S’pose my back will appreciate it.”

Dean stood and his father did too, collecting the small backpack from beside his chair. Then he peeled a few bills from his wallet and patted them into Dean’s palm. “For lunch,” he said. “Don’t forget to eat, kid,” he admonished. “It’s easy to.”

“Yes sir,” Dean answered.

John turned to leave, then halted mid-step. “I tried to call you. The school wanted to check where you were,” he added.  Dean started. He’d not given school a thought. “They said Naomi Novak had called you in on my behalf?” John added incredulously.

 _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._ Twenty different lies went through Dean’s mind before he settled on something halfway to the truth. “Yeah, I—Cas was helping Benny and I and his mom called, just after I talked to you. She got Cas to bring me for dinner and I ended up crashing there. I slept in, I guess. Cas just dropped me off.”

Brows knitting, John looked more curious than anything. “You stayed at the Novak house?”

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged. “I didn’t want to bug you, after the last call—”

“It’s fine, Dean,” John said, stopping him with a patient hand. “Just didn’t see that one comin’.”

 _You’re telling me,_ Dean replied silently, hoping he hadn’t painted him into some future corner. He was likely going to have to spend more time at Arcadia so planting the idea now might work in his favor.

“See you soon, son,” John said, dropping the subject to Dean’s abject relief. “I won’t be long. If he—when he...at least you’ll be here.”

Dean’s tried not the grit his teeth at his father’s pessimism. “Sam’ll pull through, Dad,” he said calmly.

John simply threw him a heartbroken smile and resumed his departure.

 

 

Blessedly alone with his brother, Dean returned to the blue vinyl chair next to the bed to wrap his fingers around Sam’s spindly ones while delving deep into his mind, feeling out the energy to reassure himself. Dimly, over his own thudding heartbeat, the faintest howl echoed in his ears, anguish and fury pulsing somewhere in distance. It was gratifying, and he used the satisfaction to push on, murmuring to the energy that flowed through the valve of his mark even though it turned his stomach that he was connected to Azazel now too.

Once he was satisfied, he began to speak to his brother. “I dunno if you can hear me or not, but I’ve missed you, bud." he began, hit with the realization of how much he'd always taken Sam’s simple, unconditional company for granted. "I know you’re a long way away right now, but it’s safe to stop hiding, Sammy. Dad and me? We’re here waiting for you when you come back.” Dean sighed, looking for any sign of response despite knowing it was futile. He had no idea how long this would take, and even then Naomi had tried to warn him that it may not work in the way they all hoped.

“Oh, hey kiddo,” he began, remembering Wroof still ensconced in the pocket of his coat and feeling around the rear of the chair for the well-loved toy. “I have something for you,” he added, placing it next to Sam’s shoulder where it belonged. “Wroof had a little adventure, helping me get the bad wolf. But he missed you too and he’s back for when you wake up.”

“So, uh, it’s been a crazy few days,” he continued, feeling the urge to keep talking. “I found out some stuff about myself which I’d never have believed a week ago. Stuff about how I knew what was happening to you, and which is helping me fix it.” He uncrossed and re-crossed his ankles, getting more comfortable. “I had this weird dream...more of a meditation, I guess. I—I saw Mom,” he huffed. “She talked to me. She, uh—she misses us, and she believes in us.” He gave Sam’s fingers a squeeze that was more for himself.

“Also, I spent some time up at the Novak house. Turns out they’re just as crazy as everyone says,” he smiled. “But their house is kinda cool. I think you’d like it.” A couple of nurses walked past the door just as one broke into a laugh, distracting him before the omnipresent hum of the hospital returned. “I, uh...I also met someone. Sorta—someone I knew already, but someone I realized I kinda like.” Dean shook his head, knowing he sounded like a blushing tween. “Honestly Sammy, it’s doing my head in. It’s the last person I’d have expected but there’s just somethin’ about them. They...he—he confuses the crap out of me, but in a good way, ya know?”

But Sam wouldn’t know. Dean didn’t even know beyond the knowledge that being around Castiel had him on edge the whole time. Cas was...Cas was a LOT, especially when you were the sole focus of the fjords of his gaze, or just in the vicinity his wit and self-doubts. “Anyway, I don’t know where that’s goin’ or if I even want it to.” Dean sighed, trying to grasp at an elusive thought. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing if I’m honest. But I get the feeling that I need to give myself a chance to find out.”

Sliding into silence, Dean watched the subtle rise and fall of his brother’s chest under the cotton blanket. After a while the nurse returned, making more notes before giving Dean a nod as he left. Checking his phone, he was surprised to discover it was nearly two in the afternoon already so he told Sam he’d be back and went to find whatever might be left in the cafeteria. After returning with a sandwich, he ate and resumed his vigil, only to be woken a couple of hours later by the nurse moving about the room. He didn’t remember falling asleep but he had a crick in his shoulder from laying forward, his head cradled by his arms on Sam’s bed.

The nurse was frowning. “Everything alright?” Dean asked as the man in teal scrubs checked the IV line.

“You’re Dean, yes?” Dean nodded. “His oxygen levels are showing slight improvement and his pulse has come down a touch.”

“That good?” Dean queried.

The nurse, however, didn’t seem to want to provide any more information. “I’ll come back and check again within the hour,” he replied thoughtfully, before writing a note and leaving.

Dean took hold of Sam’s hand again and waited, and waited some more. It was just on five when the nurse returned to change one of the drips and then looked to be comparing numbers on the machines. Then he left again without a word, only to return a few minutes later with a doctor who set about reviewing notes before measuring Sam’s pulse by his limp wrist rather than the monitor.

“And he hasn’t had a seizure in….” she scanned the clipboard, “nearly twelve hours?”

“What’s going on?” Dean piped up hesitantly.

“Hi—” the doctor said, acknowledging him for the first time, her long earrings fluttering as she turned her head.

“Dean,” he answered when it became apparent when she was waiting.

“Dean. Yes, your father mentioned you would be by.” She scribbled something down, then dropped the board back on the end of the bed and pocketed her hands in her coat. “Look, it’s too early to say what’s happening, but it appears Samuel may have stabilized at last. Maybe the last antibiotic we trialed has made a difference,” she added absently.

 _Yeah, sure_ Dean said to himself over the cacophony of hope in his head. “So he’s getting better?” he asked aloud.

“As I said, Dean,” she replied patiently, “it’s too early to tell, but there are a few hints that maybe his decline has been halted. For now.” Dean wanted to punch the air, and call Cas. “We’ll just have to wait and see what the next few hours bring,” she added, her tone cautious.

Dean didn’t care. “Thanks, doc,” Dean said, elated.

“Please don’t—”  
  
“What’s happening?” boomed a voice from the doorway, interrupting the doctor’s judicious advance. Dean turned to see his father, clean shaven and damp-haired but assertive.

The doctor explained to John what had happened in prudent tones while Dean tried to contain his satisfaction, then they sat down to wait. With each visit from the nurse, there seemed to be more hope and less tension in his father’s shoulders and a little more color in Sam’s complexion, more regularity in his breathing until the doctor finally came back and proclaimed Sam had indeed turned a corner and the signs were hopeful. Then, when John finally ordered Dean home and he said goodbye, the hand he was holding as he said goodnight to his brother gave the slightest twitch.

Dean’s smile was a mile wide, “Dad! He heard me!”

“You sure?” John questioned.

“I swear, he tried to squeeze my hand!” he insisted, giving in to the urge to rush to hug his father in relief.

John simply gave him a wavering smile. “I’ll call you if anything else happens, son,” he eventually replied. “Take the car and bring it back before school in the morning.”

“Dad—” he protested.

“You’ve missed enough, Dean.”

Dean sighed. “Fine,” he conceded, snatching his jacket from the back of the chair, though any resentment was far outweighed by joy. “Night Dad," he said, clapping his father on the shoulder on his way out.

 

 

Back home and in bed and still jubilant, he answered a text he’d missed from Cas several hours earlier by deciding to call.

 _"Dean?"_ Cas answered cautiously.

“He’s doing better,” Dean offered without preamble, adding excitedly, “This is working!”  
  
_‘That’s great news,’_ Cas replied.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah it is.”  
  
_"Dean?"_ Cas repeated into the pause Dean left.  
  
“I can hear him, Cas. Azazel.” he admitted quietly. “I can sense him, I guess. He’s fighting me. But he’s going to lose.”  
  
This time it was Cas who waited. " _Be careful, Winchester,"_ he said eventually. " _Don’t let him turn you into something you’re not."_  
  
“Meaning?” Dean challenged.  
  
Dean listened while Castiel drew in a sharp breath. " _Nothing, just—hang on."_ There were muffled sounds for a few moments, then he changed the subject. " _Meg says stay vigilant. He may come after you."_  
  
“Let him try.” Cas sighed a long exasperated breath but didn’t argue. “Wait, could he come after you guys?”  
  
_"Why would he? Anyway, the house is protected,"_ Cas supplied.  
  
“Okay. Good. I can handle it, Cas. I’ll see ya at school.”  
  
_"School?"_  
  
“Yeah, all going well, Dad told me to go.”  
  
_"Well, I hope I’ll see you, then,’"_ Cas replied lightly and hung up.

 

“Back again?” Benny murmured, economical as always as Dean slid surreptitiously into the seat next to his best friend, a little too long after the first-period bell for comfort.  
  
He’d dropped back to the hospital first thing, spending a few minutes talking to his still unconscious brother, letting Sam know he was making sure it was going to be safe to wake up. Then he suggested firmly again that his Dad take the car and go home for a break through the middle of the day while he caught a bus to school. Sam was continuing his upswing leaving the medical staff scratching their heads, but even John was beginning to admit his younger son might yet recover.  
  
“Sammy’s doing better. They think he’s coming out of it,” Dean whispered happily, keeping one eye on their teacher whose back was turned while he wrote on the whiteboard. Old Mr. Handcock had little patience for anyone talking in class and was known for unreasonable punishments, probably from a lifetime of name-related jokes being told behind his back. “I’ll fill you in later.”  
  
The end of a table to themselves in the cafeteria several hours later, Dean was able to give Benny the rundown on Sam’s condition and progress.

“That sounds like too close a call,” Benny observed.

Dean simply nodded, his limit reached on talking about it. “Hey, thanks for covering me the other night too.”

“Sure thing. I always have your back,” his friend winked.

He dropped the unfinished end of his hotdog in his tray, the constant low pressure of Azazel’s presence in his head affecting his appetite. His eyes flicked unbidden across the room, landing on Cas sitting in his usual spot against the wall, The boy's head was bowed as he scribbled in a notebook, languishing in the rigid plastic chair in a way that defied gravity, his feet propped up on the next door one. “Hey, if Dad asks, can you say Cas Novak was helping us study too?” he asked, forcing himself to sound casual, and failing. Benny’s eyebrows shimmied upwards but he shrugged his agreement without questioning Dean further, who took the opportunity to change the subject. “So, what’s been happening around school. Anything I should know?”

“Same old,” Benny began, just as Cas looked up and caught Dean’s eye. “Oh, you’ll never guess who got caught making out on Friday after we left.”

The senior party seemed like a lifetime ago. “Who?” said Dean absently, Castiel’s stare faltering first.

“Siobhan Taylor and Leah James.”

Dean flicked a frown at Benny. “But they hate each other, and since when did Leah swing that way?” Cas’s eyes raised from his book again, shoulders dropping in surrender with one of those birdlike tilts to his head. Dean caught himself offering a furtive wave, his hand lifting just off the table before he thought it through.

Cas squinted back. “Guess everyone has their surprises,” Benny remarked archly.

Eyes still on Cas, he gestured with a tip of his head an invitation to join them, Cas giving him a _why now?_ shrug back so demonstrative Dean thought for a moment he’d heard the words in his head. The thought evaporated as he watched Cas stuff his things in his bag and side-step the kids seated around him, throwing Dean an aggrieved look before he turned for the door.

When Dean glanced back at his friend it was clear Benny’s furrowed brow he’d seen the entire exchange. “You gonna fill me in on what’s the deal with Novak?” he interrogated.

“No deal,” Dean said, trying not to sulk. “He was just helping me with some stuff.”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” he groused. Benny raised his hands in surrender. “What?” he demanded when his friend simply continued to peruse his features.

“You done somethin’ different with your hair?”

“What?” Dean reiterated, blindsided.

“I dunno, man. You look different.”

“New moisturizer,” Dean quipped, not missing a beat even while he scrambled inside about what his friend might be sensing. “Returned my youthful glow."

Benny retorted with a scrunched up paper napkin that hit Dean square between his eyes. “Connie was asking after you. She heard about Sam.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Ben, c’mon.”

“I’m just letting you know you have options,” Benny placated, but Dean simply directed a withering glare at him before packing up his tray and scooping his bag into his shoulder. “You’re missin’ out, is all.”

“I’m really not.”

“Deano—”

“No means no, Ben,” he reiterated, more bored than exasperated. Stalking around the end of the table he dismissed his well-meaning but overbearing friend with a “Later,” before walking off.

 

He'd hoped to catch up to Cas but as usual, the boy proved elusive, at least until after the home bell when Dean rounded the bottom of the steps to apprehend him as he mounted his bike.

“Hey, what was up with you earlier?” Dean asked abruptly.

Cas heaved a breath, his mouth wavering on a reply that never eventuated, and Dean wondered if Castiel really wasn’t exaggerating about being a baby in the feelings department. “How’s Sam?” he finally asked.

Dean tried not to show his annoyance at Cas ducking out of the question. “I’m just heading there now. He was still unconscious this morning but he had his color back.”

“Do you need a ride?” Cas offered.

“Dad’s picking me up.”

Castiel nodded, fiddling with the catch on his helmet as kids leaving the building streamed by. “Can you still feel him? Azazel, I mean.”

Hunting around in his mind, Dean realized it had been a few hours since he had felt the fading desperation of the creature under his control. “No. What do you think that means?” Cas shrugged. “Could he have left town? Or be, uh...you know.”

Cas’s head canted to the left, acknowledging Dean’s hesitation at speculating aloud on the creature’s demise. “I don’t know. Do you want him to be?”

It was Dean’s turn to shrug, despite the jolt of satisfaction at the prospect which surged through his frame. Meg had told him he’d know when Azazel was no longer a threat but, typically, hadn’t elaborated on how.

The unmistakable low rumble of the Impala interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see the vehicle slow to a stop in the drop-off zone. “I gotta go. Can you keep Meg up to speed?”

Castiel didn’t reply, issuing him instead with an awkward little two-fingered salute before Dean headed to the car.

 

 

John dropped him at the hospital, his father taking the opportunity to go check in on the shop and make sure Garth and his cousin—whom John's sole assistant had roped in for the week—were holding their livelihood together. Likewise, it gave Dean some time alone with Sam whose transformation was nothing short of remarkable. His face had filled out again, his skin losing the parched, waxy appearance it still had the day before, and more than once his right hand had twitched and curled in on itself as Dean held it.

Close to seven John arrived back with a large brown paper bag, grease leaking through the underneath from a double cheeseburger each that was heaven to Dean’s olfactory system before his stomach even got in on the deal. Together they sat and ate, hope easing the hunch of his father’s shoulders until out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam’s eyelids flutter. “Sam?” he said, bursting out of his chair to reach for his brother’s hand. “Sam, buddy—it’s me.”

Like a butterfly’s first flight, Sam’s eyelids quivered open, lashes parting as his pupils dilated back and forth. John dashed to his side. “Sam—Sammy, can you hear me, son?” Sam’s consciousness continued to flicker, his chest rising and falling as evenly as ever before he fell back asleep. “Dean?” John said, voice full.

“He’s gonna be okay, Dad,” Dean smiled back at him, John nodding like he didn’t dare say anything else. “S’ok, Sammy, you just wake up when you’re ready,” Dean said to his brother, then to John, “I’ll go tell the nurse.”

The next couple of hours flew, Dean trying and failing to pay attention to the notes he had for the trig test he’d somehow, against all odds, remembered he had in the morning. First the nurse and then not one but two doctors came in to check over Sam, who continued to struggle to wake restlessly several more times during their thorough checks and animated discussions.

Eventually, his father chased him out the door again, telling him to again take the car home and pop back in before school while John kept the night vigil in his room, though this time it was in case he woke up entirely instead of anticipating the worst.

 

Dean parked the Impala, reaching the ward’s reception at eight on the dot Friday morning, but instead of breezing past the desk the nurse on duty stopped him.

“Mr. Winchester, can you wait here a moment and I’ll let your father know you’re here,” she said.

“Why, what’s happened?” Dean asked, his senses springing to attention.

“Just a moment, please,” she reiterated, but Dean didn’t want to wait.

“Dad?” he called, starting down the hall anything. “Dad!”

The nurse chasing behind, John emerged from the doorway and rushed to meet him. “It’s okay,” his father assured the short, blonde woman over Dean’s shoulder.

“Dad? What’s wrong?”

John’s eyes were wild, and Dean’s stomach plummeted. “Sam had another seizure, Dean. He woke up several times last night and he was looking great, but then about fifteen minutes ago he had a fit, outta nowhere.”

“What? That can’t be right,” Dean insisted. “He was better. He was—”

“Dean, there’s more,’ John interrupted. “It was right after we had an incident.”

“Incident?”

“There was a man, at the desk,” John said, pointing back to the reception area. “He was trying to see Sam and when he was refused, he got irate. They had to get security got involved.”

“What!”

“It’s okay, he won’t be allowed back in the building.”

Dean’s mind was racing. “What did he look like?”

“I didn’t see, but apparently he was older, homeless looking but in a three-piece suit.”

“I gotta go,” Dean said urgently.

“Dean—”

“No, Dad, I—there’s something I have to do. Just keep Sam safe, okay?”

“Dean!” John yelled, but Dean was already backtracking towards to lift as fast as possible.

Once down in the lobby, Dean’s hands were shaking so much he could barely pull up Cas’s number.

 _"Dean?"_ Cas’s puzzled voice answered the phone.

“Are you still at home?”

_"Yes. Why?"_

“I need to speak to Meg.”

 _"W_ _hat’s_ _wrong?"_

“Cas, just get her, please,” Dean pressed. “I need help. Now.”

 

 

 


	13. Vacant Shoes

 

 

Listening impatiently to Cas’s muffled footsteps, Dean finally heard a rustle before the old woman came on the line.

_"Good morning, Dean.”_

“He’s back! Azazel—” Dean blurted. “He was just here and Sam’s sick again. What do I do?”

_"Dean, I need you to slow down and tell me what happened."_

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean took a strained breath. “I’m at the hospital. Sam woke up during the night, but before I got here Azazel turned up and had tried to get to him. He was thrown out, but right afterward Sam had another seizure.”

_"How is he now?"_

“I don’t know. It just happened so they wouldn’t let me in and I didn’t stick around. I have to fix this. Please, Meg, tell me how.”  

_"You need to finish him, Dean."_

“How?”

_"Do you think you can locate him?"_

Dean sent a tendril out, calling his mark to get a sense of the creature it possessed, receiving back an impression clear enough to back himself.  “I think I have an idea, yeah,” he replied after a moment. “What do I do?”

_"Simply tell him he’s done. His time is over, shut him off from his own life force."_

“What? I—I don’t understand.”

 _"Y_ _ou will. It’ll make sense when you’re close to him."_

“Uh, okay. Thanks,” he said, going to end the call.

 _"Wait!’'_ she called, and he lifted the phone to his ear again. _"Castiel should go with you. But remember, you have the power you need. Don’t be cruel; just put an end to this, now. Here’s Cas."_

Dean shut his eyes to block out the world for a moment. " _Hospital?"_ Castiel's voice interrupted.

“Yeah.”

_"I’ll be there in ten."_

The call ended, leaving Dean in the midst of the early morning bustle of the hospital. He stood stock still, barely hearing the people milling around him over the rapid thud of his heart.

“You okay, son?” an elderly man asked. Dean looked up to find milky, brown eyes staring at him with concern.

“Yeah, thanks,” he replied, forcing a smile. “Just one of those days, I guess?”

The gentleman nodded in sympathy at Dean’s understatement then moved on, leaving Dean to pace out the door into the bright sunshine of the morning and the relative solitude of the far end of the parking bay. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes once more and attempted to center himself. Not even Benny knew how anxious he’d get before a race, but at least he’d taught himself over time that going in with his head all over the place and his nerves shot wasn’t going to help, and this was no different.

It seemed to take forever for Cas to get there. “Where’s your lid?” his friend asked as Dean launched from the wall he leaned against to land behind Cas.

“I dunno. Sam’s room? Doesn’t matter.”

“Dean—”

“Just go, Cas!”

Castiel didn’t go. Instead, he pulled his head free of his helmet and held it over his shoulder. “Put it on, Winchester.”

Dean huffed loudly to make clear his impatience but pulled Cas’s helmet on. The padding was warm and snug and it made him feel instantly calmer, if only by a slim measure. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Cas deadpanned. “Now, where are we going?”

“The shop.”

Cas twisted to look Dean in the eye. “You sure?”

“No, but I’m sure enough,” he answered, then flipped the visor shut on further interrogation.

The bike wound them through the wide streets at an even pace too slow for Dean’s liking, but it was rush hour—at least what counted as rush hour in Lawrence. He tried to keep his mind blank in order to sense Azazel’s elusive presence. Dean could tell now that the creature wasn’t even hiding from him, but he could still only catch an echo every now and again, like a ghost’s imprint plaguing the back of his conscious. 

Castiel pulled into the curb down the street from where the antique junk store sat burrowed between the larger ones around it. It still looked abandoned, with no sign anyone might be inside.

“Back door?” Cas asked as Dean disembarked.

Dean scanned the building’s exterior, then the relatively busy pavement. “I guess,” he agreed.

Together, they made their way to the alley leading to the rear of the shop, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible to anyone passing by. Nonchalant wasn’t how Dean felt inside. He didn’t know how he felt anything if he was honest. After running on a high for the last few days and then the colliding moments of panic at the hospital, now everything had dissipated, overwritten by the current coiling in his veins.

“What did you mean, Cas?” he tenuously asked as they neared the door. Castiel stopped mid-stride and turned, expectant. “When you said ‘don’t let him turn you into something you’re not’.”  Without the benefit of his sunglasses to hide his discomfort, Cas chewed his plush bottom lip instead. “Do you think I’m being cruel to him?”

“Are you?” Cas countered.

Dean shrugged. “Don’t you think he deserves it?”

“I didn’t think that was the point.” Castiel looked around furtively, avoiding Dean’s eye. “Look, Dean,” he added, pausing to press downbeat lips together. “I can _feel_ you all amped up. And I get enjoying it, believe me when I say I do. I mean, you have _no_ idea—”

“Cas,” Dean said, growing impatient.

Castiel reluctantly met his eyes again. “Maybe even he wasn’t so bad once, until one day he made a choice to be.”

Dean only lasted a few moments before he had to turn away from the intrusive stare, striding to eat up the ground to the door, Castiel hurrying to chase him. He turned the handle and it gave way, unlocked. “He’s here. I can feel him.” Dean said tightly, then flicked Cas a warning glance. “I think I should do this alone.”

“Dean—”

“I heard you Cas, it’s okay. I got it. But I also think I need to finish it myself.”  He didn’t know why he was so sure, he just was. He was less sure about Castiel having a front row seat to what he needed to do.

Castiel’s expression went from stricken to resigned as he asked, “Do you know what to do? This might be a trap, you know.”

“Oh, I know. But for who?” he grinned, but it was hollow. “Pretty sure I can wing it,” he added before wondering if he might have to duck a punch from his friend.

“Whom,” Cas grouched all gritted teeth.

“He’s falling apart, I can feel it now,” Dean placated, then wrinkled his nose. “I can smell it. That trip to the hospital musta been his last play, and I’ll make sure of it.”

Sighing, Castiel shoved his hands in his pockets. “Be firm. Don’t leave him any way out.”

“He can’t. I’ve got him.”

“He thought he had Sam. He still might,” Castiel argued. Dean conceded the point with a wry nod. “I don’t like this, Winchester,” Cas added sternly.

Dean winked in return. “Get used to it,” he replied, then slipped inside the open door before Castiel could land another glacial scowl.

Once he’d let his sight adjust to the dark, Dean stepped cautiously through the rear storage area, wincing as a floorboard groaned under his weight. He inched into view of the office through its open door. Inside, the old lamp was on, the figure of Azazel slumped and still in the office chair with his back turned, the scene looking eerily like the cold open of any television show Dean could care to name.

The figure didn’t stay still, however. As Dean filled the door frame the chair turned, the full monstrosity of Azazel’s collapse revealing itself in the vacuum of the spartan room. Shoes scraping on the floor, the chair creaked as the creature’s limbs leadenly maneuvered his front into view, movements jerky and frail.

“I knew you’d come,” the man said, voice splintering just like the fibers holding him together. His deeply-lined face was sunken, jowls hanging from his jaw like there was no muscle left. Eyes bulging each side of his bulbous nose, he placed both hands on the desk, nesting one inside the other, the rings Dean remembered covering Azazel’s fingers that fateful afternoon still encircling them but sliding loosely between the knuckles. Even the clothes he wore looked rumpled and dusty, but nothing compared to the smell, overpowering in its repellent decay. The energy Dean had drained from him must have been more than he’d thought. Or that attempt to see Sam had cost Azazel more than _he_ thought.

Instinctively shutting off the information from his nose, Dean looked down it at the creature. “I know you expected me. But I only came to tell you that you’re already dead,” he intoned.

The light in Azazel’s eyes flared but his chest caved like Dean had struck him with a fist and Dean _understood_. The world didn't want this abomination existing any more than he did. “I’m centuries old, Dean. You think it’s that easy to get rid of me?” Azazel managed after drawing a jagged breath.

Dean was unmoved. “Oh, admit it,” he replied bleakly. “You’re unwelcome here. Whatever you were, now you’re just the leftover bits. The shit bits too. Stop pretending you’re anything close to human. You’re done.”

Azazel heaved himself from the chair with such force of willpower Dean flinched for the first time. “It’s those witches, isn’t it,” the man spat, taking one tremulous step forward, then another. “They corrupted you, you know. You’ll never be properly human again, either. You might not know it now, but you’ll know soon enough what you’ve given up. You’ll realize what a truly grave mistake you’ve made and you’ll do anything to reverse it. _Then_ let’s see how different you and I are,” he finished with a grimace so hideously wide Dean thought the man’s very mouth might split.

Banishing the chill of doubt running down his spine, Dean steeled his conviction. “I was going to punish you, but _those witches_ told me it was better for my humanity not to,” he observed, drawing up to his full height and clearing his mind. “So let’s just get this over with.”

“Wait!” Azazel answered, shrill and desperate and laying another step. “If only you could know yet, how human sensation is impossible to give up,” - _step-_ “To taste flavors—a sun-warmed nectarine,” _-step-_ “salt baked onto a bread’s crust, salt on skin...skin!” _-step-_ “You take it for granted what you feel, the sheer pleasure—”

“Stop!” Dean cried at the man’s obsequious advance, then sought out his mark, speaking silently with his will to both it and the creature it possessed, urging them into mutual destruction. “You’re finished here," he voiced again. "Sam isn’t yours, but you’re mine. And I’m telling you your time is over.”

But the creature kept coming, one staggering foot in front of another around the desk and within a few feet of Dean even as he seemed to begin to collapse in on himself. “You think you know, but you don’t!” he tried to bellow, his voice bubbling. “Little Sammy told me all sorts of tidbits, you see. One day, when your father has left you nothing but debts and daddy issues, when Samuel has grown up and abandoned you for a full life because he can’t trust your lies” -step- “and his human senses are repulsed being around you, just like anyone you try to love—”

“Stop!” Dean yelled this time, the current fizzing inside snapping outward in a shockwave. Azazel flinched like he’d been shot.

Standing his ground, Dean swayed out of reach of the arm swinging blindly for him but the dissolving creature kept stumbling forwards. “If you let me go, I’ll teach you how not to be alone, how to _feel_ when your polluted, debased nature has taken that ability from you—”

“You’re wrong!” Dean croaked as Azazel launched forward and clutched at Dean’s jacket, his weight going down on his knees. Dean tried to push him away, his hands sinking through the rotten fabric and into Azazel’s shoulders like they were jello. “I’ll never be like you!”

What was left of the man kept begging even as his sinews snapped and bones crunched and shattered hitting the floor, thighs concertinaing as he went down. “I’ll show you how to take back what humans will deny you—please—”

Finally running out of voice, the last words whistled from him like air from old bellows. Dean allowed himself a step back as fingers scrabbled at his jeans, fingernails—no, raw bones, the tips looking frostbitten and missing—scraping down to his ankles and pinching at his laces. “Stop!” It was Dean’s turn to plead, his face wet suddenly, unsure if it was tears or spittle from the creature’s ranting. “Stop! You’re dead!” he repeated taking another step out of reach.

The figure prostrated on the floor before him writhed, blackish tar-like blood oozing through the knees of his tailored slacks, from the scouring stubs of hands and grossly distorted mouth. “You’re dead,” Dean said one last time, almost sobbing now, watching as the skeleton inside the suit shuddered, dark patches spreading like oil on the skin of his near-bald scalp and cheeks.

After what seemed like an eternity it fell still, little more than a husk wrapped in old clothes, smears of rotten gore on the floor around it. At some point, the feet had completely fallen out the shoes like they’d shrunk before the creature fell, leaving a perfectly placed pair of brown leather brogues behind, unmarked.

A floorboard creaked to his rear and Dean spun around to find Castiel, mouth aghast and stock in the center of the storeroom. “I thought I told you to stay outside,” he complained, the roar he intended sound thin and riven.

Castiel ignored him, shaking himself free of shock and rushing forward. “You okay?” he beseeched, halting abruptly before him as he anxiously looked Dean over. Peering down, Dean saw why. Chunks of what looked like ashen charcoal amid purple and black smears clung to the front of his clothes and boots. Spreading his hands, his fingers were covered in the same congealing mess.

“How much did you see?” he asked, unsure if he felt iller at the grotesque mess or the distaste sitting queasily on Castiel’s face.

Cas looked him in the eye, mouth softening. “Enough.” Then he dropped his gaze to the wreckage on the floor. “It’s over, Dean,” he reflected solemnly.

“Almost,” Dean said, looking around for something to wipe his hands on, his clothes already out of the question. “I need to call the hospital,” he added, futilely.

“Hold on,” Cas said, realizing Dean’s dilemma and going into action mode. He tossed a few of the boxes on shelves, then reached the far end of the room. “There’s a bathroom!” he observed triumphantly, pointing to an obscured doorway.

Urging his feet to move, Dean met him to find a water closet and with a tiny wall sink. Gratefully turning the tap, he rinsed his hands as best he could in the small bowl, then made the mistake of raising his eyes to find his reflection in a tarnished mirror tacked to the wall above. Pupils flaring, he quickly took in the splotches of dark matter rivaling his freckles, a few droplets even in his hair. Wiping them with wet hands, he tried to clean his face but only succeeded in smearing it around.

It was then his hitherto valiant stomach finally revolted. Throwing back the lid, he vomited into the toilet, the meager contents of his gut splashing into the bowl. After a few moments, he regained control, breathing heavily as his body righted itself. “Sorry,” he croaked, ashamed and knowing Castiel hovered apprehensively behind.

“Good god, what for?” Cas replied. "Congratulations, you’re still human.”

Dean let out a huff that verged on hysteria. “For now,” he croaked.

“What?”

Nausea assuaged, he risked turning around. “Nevermind."

Castiel’s shoulders slumped. “Let me take you home,” he said, reading Dean’s face with an anemic smile.

Outside in the bright sunshine, Dean almost felt like he could breathe again. “We just gonna leave him there?” he asked as Cas worked his mojo on the door’s lock, then set about meticulously wiping down the handle along with any other spots on the door they might have touched, just as he’d done with the taps and lever on the toilet inside.

“I’d be surprised if he has anyone who’d look for him. Might be months—years even, before this door is opened.”

The remark struck a twinge in his wrung-out gut. “I guess,” he replied, then tried his best to put the scene in the building behind him as he followed Cas, dragging his feet away.

 

 

 

Absently wavering near the table, Dean took one look at his clothes and hands in the warm mid-morning light pouring in the windows and screwed up his face. 

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asked, lingering awkwardly in the kitchen like he wasn’t sure if he was intruding or not.

“Uh, nothin’. I guess I should call…” Dean trailed off, transfixed by the gunk under his fingernails. He couldn’t get his brain to stick with a complete thought, a bit like being stoned except for how utterly flat he felt, as if he was encased in a chamber where nothing going on around him or even inside him could reach.

“You want to go clean up?” Cas suggested, his patient, furrowed face appearing in front of Dean’s. He'd removed his bike jacket, Dean noted absently. “Sam is safe. Call afterward.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Dean walked woodenly into the bathroom and turned the faucet for the shower. Peeling off his ruined clothing, he contemplated whether to throw them right into the trash, though it occurred to him he didn’t have another coat if he did.

Stepping under the spray he let the water do it’s work, sluicing away the grime and ghastly matter from his hair and skin as he scrubbed and scoured himself until the temperature began to run cool and he was forced to shut it off. It was only once out and dried off he realized he hadn’t gathered anything clean to put on, so instead of just his towel, he settled for the relative modesty of the underwear he’d put on that morning and yesterday’s tee from the laundry basket until he made it back to his room. Once there, he focused on summoning the concentration to call his father to make sure Sam was alright. Then, maybe, he could take a proper breath again.

Dialing John’s number, he couldn’t help notice a tremor in his fingers. “Dad?” he asked, oddly surprised when his father picked up the call.

_"Dean, where’ve you been? Are you alright?"_

John’s voice was equal parts puzzled and censuring, and Dean winced. “Yeah I’m okay. I’ll be back soon. How’s Sam?” he added, hoping his father would drop any interrogation over his behavior.

_"He’s stable again. Actually, he’s just woken up. But they’re monitoring him closely."_

“He’s woken up?”

 _"He even whispered your name. Wanted to know where you were, I guess."_ John supplied, the admonishment implicit.

Nonetheless, Dean felt something dislodge reluctantly in his chest. “Tell him I’ll see him soon, okay?” he managed, voice cracking on a hard syllable.

_"You’re comin’ back?"_

“Yeah, I’ll be on my way soon. I’ll explain then. Bye, Dad."

Dean ended the call, depleted of any more words he could offer. He didn’t know how or what he was going to say to his father but right now, even the knowledge that Sam was safe could barely penetrate the black hole swallowing him from the inside out. He felt weighted and numb all at once, like being dragged by stones to the bottom of the river but not giving a shit about needing to breathe. Not because he felt hopeless, but because he couldn’t feel.

Standing there, skin still damp and legs bare, he couldn’t work out what was happening. He should be happy—or at the very least gratified by vengeance and Sam’s removal from danger. But no adrenaline come-down he’d ever experienced felt anything like this, leaving him scooped out and on the verge of shaking in the safety of the spring sunshine in his room.

Scratch that, he _was_ shaking, his right hand cramping in its grip of his phone while his left arm looped over his middle. Not only that, tears were gathering in his lashes and spilling onto his cheeks but he didn’t know why because he couldn’t _feel_ anything, which only made the shivers strengthen.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Cas’s shadow arrive before he did. “Dean?” he asked, hushed and cautious from the half-open door, and Dean suddenly saw his lifeline.

“Cas,” he answered hoarsely, his friend’s moon face appearing from the darkened hallway.

Apprehension widening his eyes, Castiel halted while he took Dean in, eyes sweeping up past his dingy tee to his tear-streaked face. “Cas—” he whispered again, desperate this time. 

Castiel finally rushed forward only to stop an arm's length away. “What’s wrong—is something happening?” his friend asked urgently, hands restless like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure which hole in the dike that was left fortifying Dean’s stability to plug first.

But that was the whole problem, Dean didn’t know. He’d tell Cas if he could, God knows there was no one else he really wanted to. He probably looked like he was in pain, but all he knew was that he wanted it to stop and Cas was there.

Letting his phone land on the carpet, Dean lurched forward to crash into him, all but headbutting them together before finding his mouth. Cas—to either his credit or mystery—absorbed the impact with ease, barely moving even as Dean latched himself crazily, scrabbling at Castiel’s ribs through his long-sleeved tee and sucking in his bottom lip.

After a few moments, Cas relented, just enough for Dean to register he was being kissed in return before he was gently and firmly held in place. Castiel pulled away, eyes almost iridescent as they searched Dean’s features with a mixture of tenderness and prudence. Dean squirmed under the blue focus and reached for him again, clutching a fistful of his shirt over his breastbone, to hold himself up as much as to stake a claim. “Please, Cas,” he managed. “I need—”

He didn’t want to beg, but he was on the verge of doing just that when Castiel softened and surrendered, closing the space he’d put between them with a glide that ended with Cas’s lips slotting between his far more accurately and forgiving than Dean’s approach. Dean let himself be kissed and it was _exactly_ what he needed, the solid warmth of Castiel’s hands, of his presence as he crammed into Dean’s space, while the tender movements of his mouth drew the poison out of Dean, out from every point where they touched.

“Dean,” Castiel murmured into his mouth then across his cheeks. “Dean, Dean—” he repeated before Dean tasted his own tears on Cas’s lips again and something was happening to Castiel too: his body arching into Dean’s and his limbs relinquishing their power in an invocation that drilled deep inside Dean’s core.

Carefully, Dean took a turn at breaking them apart, retreating just enough to see Cas’s face while he reached for the hem of the boy’s dark tee. It had a pattern of cross-hatched stitching across the front—some fancy designer crap, Dean thought vaguely as Cas permitted him to pull it up and free of his shoulders to dump it on the floor. The expression in his eyes was indecipherable when they landed back on Dean’s. Dean noted the heat, but it played second fiddle to the wide-eyed reverence as he repeated the gesture on himself, pulling his own shirt over his head. When he went to touch Cas, however, the boy all but flinched as Dean ghosted fingertips over his collarbone before letting them plunge like a waterfall down his abdomen, skin goose-pimpling under their wake so responsively he did it again, slower, then traced the denim line of Cas’s waistband.

Dean wasn’t sure he’d touched anyone quite like that let alone another boy, but he drank in the sight of Cas’s faintly olive skin and his subtly sculpted curves with a sense of awe. “Please, Cas,” he reiterated, sensing hesitance again in Cas’s stance, “I need to feel.”

Maybe it wasn’t hesitation. Maybe Cas was just arranging his desire because next thing he knew Castiel’s hands were everywhere, ranging over his back and clamped behind his neck as he was kissed ruthlessly while they tussled backwards, his heels hitting the baseboard of the bed. Tumbling sideways, Cas made sure Dean was pinned and this, _this_ is what Dean needed, Castiel taking over and filling up all his senses, acres of skin on skin, all his nerves tranquilized by mouth and tongue and touch. Cas licking whorls behind his ear, Cas palming at his hips and grazing teeth over his chin all while bearing down and crushing him into the narrow mattress.

The button on Castiel’s jeans knocked roughly against Dean’s cock, hard enough to startle him, his breath catching and eyelids flying open to find Cas looking down, gaze clouded and dark. Locking their eye contact, Dean moved a hand between them to trace the line of his own arousal in his underwear, but it was promptly batted away and replaced by Castiel’s. The touch sent a jolt through his pelvis and he sucked in air, only to have it sealed in his lungs by another uncompromising press of Cas’s mouth.

His restless hands fumbled around the front of Cas’s jeans in a clumsy attempt to find the closure but Castiel lost patience first, rearing onto his knees to release the button and zip, shoving them off his hips before lowering back down. Then the last thing Dean remembered was Cas’s forearm framing his head as somehow Cas had them both free from the cotton confines. Long fingers wrapped around him and they rocked, his brain blessedly whiting out, consumed by the assault of sensation: friction and slide, hot panted breaths, pinpricks of pain and pleasure searing together and then finally, _finally_ an orgasm that simultaneously shredded whatever was left holding him together and somehow put him back in one piece again.

As he swam back to himself he became aware Castiel's forehead was slumped against his shoulder, face hidden by a mess of sweaty dark hair, as well as the cooling mess on his stomach which was surely too much to just be his own. Rolling his free arm, he attempted to stretch for his nightstand but the angle was all wrong. Roused by his movements, Cas lifted his head and blinked. “Tissue. Top draw,” Dean provided succinctly and Cas caught on, managing to reach and rescue the box. Dean let him clean each of them up, watching Cas’s face and the tendons flexing in his arms as he meticulously mopped up only to toss the soiled paper on the floor.

Dean didn’t care. He was too busy making the most of the come-down and ignoring what had propelled them here. He almost felt like himself again. Except for the part where he just sort of had sex with Cas.

He tucked himself away in his boxers. “Um, so that happened,” he risked as Castiel restlessly surveyed every part of Dean but his eyes. Then he winced and Dean felt a stab of shame: that he pushed too hard, that Cas regretted falling for his needy bullshit. “What?” he challenged anyway.

“Uh, I think I bit you,” the boy admitted sheepishly.

Dean’s looked to where Cas’s eyes roved and noted the red and purpling flower midway along his shoulder. “Oh,” he noted, fear turning to relief—he was almost sorry he didn’t remember it, in fact—but he let Castiel chew nervously on his bottom lip because it made him want to wrest it away between his own teeth. “Cas,” he whispered, attracting his attention by sliding a palm behind his ear and coaxing him reluctantly down so their mouths met. “S’ok,” Dean murmured, risking a smile. “I kinda like it.”

Castiel issued a groan full of protest and resignation into Dean’s mouth before rolling away. “Winchester—” he whined, but apparently couldn’t muster up the remainder of the complaint, opting in the end for a matching shy grin. It was surprisingly easy, lying here with Castiel Novak on his bed looking somewhat debauched with hair a disaster zone and jeans halfway down his thighs.

“Do you want to talk about what was happening there? Uh—before—” Cas risked into the slim space between them.

Dean’s face fell while he tried to assemble an explanation. Given the circumstances, it was fair to give Cas one. “You wanna talk about feelings?” he eventually returned, amused, though it came out more acrid.

“I’ll try,” Castiel hedged, timid and sincere, making Dean regret his tone further.

He didn’t want to return to that numb place. Right now he felt flat, but it was the kind where stillness reigned instead of the maelstrom of earlier. “I killed him, Cas,” he said finally. “I did that. What does it make me?”

Cas took a breath before replying. “Powerful. Merciful.”

“Does it?” Dean snapped.  “Because it feels like the opposite.”

“Dean, you’ve saved Sam’s life and probably countless future lives,” Cas replied with a patience Dean didn’t deserve. “He needed to die.”

“What if I turn into...into that, Cas? Would you put me down too?”

Cas looked utterly dismayed. “You’d never be like him.”

“Why not? You said it yourself. He probably wasn’t so bad, once. Same could be said for me—”

“Dean—”

“Hero or villain; you say you don’t know what _you_ are yet, but the first thing I do with this shit I’ve been given, is kill someone? Yeah, not sure about my odds."

“Dean, listen to me. Sometimes I say some stupid shit, but this isn’t one of those times,” Cas leveled. “You are utterly and completely different. To begin with, he didn’t start as human. At your worst, you’d never be in danger of turning into something like him.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

“Of course I’m sure!” Cas exploded, then calmed into sorrow. “I can see you, Dean.”

Somehow, that scared Dean more than anything else, but he held Cas’s defiant stare. “He was a desperate excuse for a person trying to get in your head. Don’t let him.”

Dean sighed and tried to believe him. “I hope you’re right,” he admitted.

“I don’t get things wrong, Winchester,” Castiel replied, feigning offense. Or maybe not feigning, he was too wiped to figure it out. Though maybe the look on Dean’s face made it appear he was trying to. “Stop thinking,” Cas ordered.

“Easy for you to say,” he argued as Cas suddenly crawled backward down his torso. “Cas, what are—you don’t have to—”

“Dean,” Cas interrupted, patient and low, breath warm across Dean’s navel. “Your brother’s safe. I’ll take you to him soon.  Let me help make you feel safe too.”

Something in Dean’s gut performed a perilous somersault. “Via my dick?” he wisecracked to cover it up.

“It’s where my more natural talents lie.”

Slamming his head back on the pillow, Dean blinked at the ceiling, not quite ready to accept that his new supernatural talents apparently included the ability to turn down blowjobs, especially when a nose was nuzzling at the elastic waist of his underwear. “Cas,” he started to no effect. He looked down his length and sunk fingers into Castiel’s hair. “Cas!” he tried again, the sharpness this time making the boy pause and meet his eyes. “I appreciate the offer, man. Believe me, I do. But I gotta go.”

Castiel ruminated above Dean’s hips for an excruciatingly long moment, then extricated himself in a tangle of legs to stand. Dipping to pick up his tee, he pulled it over his head and stretched his arms through the openings while Dean hoisted himself to sit, continuing to loiter uncertainly on the edge of his bed as Cas shook his hips back into his jeans and fastened the fly.

Fully aware of Dean’s attention on him Castiel wordlessly threw the remaining tee, the day-old cotton hit Dean square in the face. “Guess I deserve that,” he said, shrugging it on and accepting Castiel’s outstretched hand before he was hauled to his feet. He risked a wary smirk. “So, uh—sorry for ruining your celibacy jag, I guess.”

Cas's brow arched.  “I’m not sure ‘ruined’ is the appropriate term.”

Dean dialed up the cocky in his smile. “That mean I can get a raincheck?”

A surprised laugh escaped Cas, but his amusement quickly turned somber. He crossed his arms. “Let’s talk about it when everything’s back to normal.”

This time it was Dean’s turn to hitch an eyebrow. “And when is that, Cas?” he demanded patiently. “Tell me, because I thought the whole point was nothing is normal anymore. Me...us...” He watched as a hundred thoughts passed behind Cas’s eyes before he couldn’t look anymore. Sniffing his sleeve, he decided he really couldn’t endure the shirt especially if he ended up staying at the hospital, so he left Castiel and his indecision in the center of the room while he busied himself swapping it for a clean one from his drawers, locating a starchy pair of jeans while he was at it.

When he’d eased them on, Castiel ambushed him, firmly walking him back against his closet, the gratified sound he made allowing the senior to invade Dean’s mouth with his tongue and yes, Dean wasn’t going to admit it out loud but he could get used to this.

“That’s an affirmative on the raincheck,” Cas purred while somehow still scowling at Dean’s blitzed expression, then begrudgingly backed away. “Now, are you ready to go?”

Dean sighed in reply and peeled himself off the wardrobe door. He tried to focus on immediate practicalities like socks and shoes and whether he could wait for lunch, opting to pull on a button down and his ravaged pair of chucks rather than the boots he wore this morning. He probably should clean everything up, but the thought began to turn his stomach when he’d just realized he’d actually almost developed an appetite again.

Cas led them out to the living area where he zipped himself into his jacket and waited as Dean found his key, and then they were back out into the warmth of the day, back to being two teenage kids shirking school on the back of a motorbike.

This time when Cas pulled up the bike in the drop bay, Dean didn’t get off immediately. Keeping his knees each side of Cas’s hips, he removed the helmet and shook out his hair. “What ya gonna do now?” he asked, conversationally. 

Shrugging, Cas cast him a glance over his leather-clad shoulder. “Go home, I suppose. Fill in the maternal units on your success. No point in going to school.”

“True, I’m not there to stalk,” Dean deadpanned, and he thought he could see Castiel’s eye-roll even though he was limited to aiming a cheshire grin at the back of his skull.

“Call me, if you need me,” Castiel added, valiantly remaining serious.

“What if I, ya know...just want you. Complications or not.” Dean answered, glad Cas couldn't see his shock at surpassing even his own usual brazenness. He was, however, also sincere with the greater meaning. Sure they’d gotten off on the wrong foot, but hopefully one day soon Castiel would get it through his thick, capricious skull that he wasn’t just an oddity.

Cas’s shoulders sagged, and Dean couldn’t tell if he was defeated or privately laughing. “God, you’re such a pain in my ass, Winchester,” he said, deflecting with a reconciled shake of his head. Dean squeezed his shoulder in commiseration as he finally alighted, handing Cas his helmet. “Next time, make sure you bring your own,” the boy added, before putting it on and shutting his sparkling clear gaze away behind the visor

Dean saluted casually and watched as Cas revved the bike and rode off, waiting until the sound of the motor had drifted into the distance before he turned for the doors.

This time when he made it to the ward reception he was invited right past, finding John in the seat beside Sam's bed. Seeing Dean, John rose and greeted him with a hug that didn’t seem to hold enduring judgment.

“He’s been waiting for you,” his father said gently. 

Dean looked at Sam’s peaceful face, eyes closed but without the tension that had previously been locked in the corners. John shuffled away, leaving Dean to take the seat and Sam’s hand, taking care to avoid the IV lines. Almost as soon as their palms met, Sam’s lashed fluttered and his eyes opened.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean beamed, a solid block of emotion slamming home in his chest.

Sam’s mouth twitched with a tiny spark of a smile, Dean’s soul tuning itself to the resonance of one hoarsely whispered word. “Dean.”

 


	14. Cake

“Dean! Look at what Ms. Moseley gave me!”

Dean turned from the kitchen counter to see his little brother vibrating with excitement and proudly holding a large boxed Lego kit.

“It’s the Droid gunship! See?”

“Wow, you are one lucky kid,” Dean replied, trying not to gape. Hell, he was even a little jealous. “Thank you, ma’am” he added over the servery to Missouri, who stood watching the exchange with keen-eyed amusement.

“I thought it would fit the bill,” she winked, leaving him to wonder how it was she knew exactly which toy Sam had been pining for that they themselves would never be able to afford.

Sam dashed back into the living room and sat down with his friends, leaving Dean to put the finishing touches on the cake. It was only meant to be a low-key affair. Barely a party, in fact, seeing as Sam had only been home from the hospital for a few days. Despite the enthusiasm borne of his gifts, he was still plagued with long bouts of fatigue and lethargy, as well as nightmares when he would finally drop off to sleep. Dean hoped that the presence of friends and some indulgent food might perk him up a little, especially since Sam had lost enough weight during his illness to have he and their father concerned.

Still, a little over a week since the threat to his brother had been extinguished, life had largely returned to boring routine. The kind where all Dean had to worry about was cramming for finals and whether he could find a clean pair of socks each morning. In the hospital, Sam had grown stronger and more alert every day much to the ongoing perplexity of the medical professionals, while also winning over the hearts of the staff. Dr. Barnes, the emergency physician who’d first attended him after he was admitted had even made a point of stopping by every day to check in on Sam’s progress. Dean couldn’t be sure, but he suspected her interest might have had to do with her peripheral senses perceiving something out of the ordinary with Sam’s case. She’d issued Dean with a ribald wink that had made him blush when she caught him regarding her with the question _is she like me?_ dancing in his mind.

Or at least how Dean had been. Before.

Now, little seemed radically different, or difficult. The kinds of things Cas had described to him in warning had slowly begun to reveal themselves, though nowhere near as dramatically as he’d been led to fear. The world around him did undoubtedly look and feel altered but in a way that it suffused him so that he had become part of everything, connected to the teeming life around him in ways he’d never thought possible. Each tree, each blade of grass and finch or sparrow or star in the sky were no longer random background elements to his everyday experience. Instead, they felt like extensions of him, his atoms not quite his own but part of an infinite, interwoven canvas.

He was able to imagine how it could be overwhelming should it continue, or if he didn’t have anyone to guide him. Meg had advised him the full extent of his alteration would only reveal itself in time and that it was impossible to predict because was a process unique to everyone, with outcomes to match. However, Dean hadn’t yet had a chance to revisit anything with the Novak witches. He’d been so busy either at the hospital or keeping on top of school he’d had almost no contact with them. Even Cas, who’d appeared at school Monday morning as usual and lounged in his preferred seat against the wall of the cafeteria to eye Dean from across the room. The looks Dean received now though, while still circumspect, came laden with flickers of sense memory and cautious potentiality which provided him with a distraction that was at once welcome and...well, ruinously distracting.

The one time they’d spoken was when Dean had loitered just long enough to appear to happen upon Cas between Thursday classes, surprising him with a lean into the wall next to the bay of senior lockers, of which Castiel’s was at the end.

“You been avoiding me?” Dean had teased under his breath without any real umbrage.

“No more than usual,” Cas had replied warily, once the mild shock had drained away. “How’s your brother?”

“They’re predicting a full and miraculous recovery. He’s supposed to be discharged in the morning.”

Cas had smiled then, the warmth filtering right up into his eyes. “That’s good to hear, Winchester.”

Dean had found himself idiotically grinning back, mostly at Castiel having a genuinely compassionate emotion, so much so that Cas’s face had turned to suspicion. “So, uh, it’s his birthday on Sunday and we’re going to have a party for him. Just a handful of friends and neighbors—real laid back. You wanna come?” he ventured.

Castiel’s suspicion had deepened. “You want me to come?”

Dean had rolled his eyes. “Yes, Novak. I’m asking you. Besides, Sam’s been asking after you.”

“He...what?”

“Your name mighta come up.” Dean had shrugged away how he'd answered Sam's quiet questions about how he'd subdued his brother's assailant. He hadn't been able to lie. It was clear Sam had sensed at least some of it and the kid had always been intuitive as well as a freaking know-it-all. He'd just left out most of the details.  “Any time from two,” he'd said, nudging Cas with his shoulder on his departure.

He’d not looked back to see Castiel’s full reaction which was why, now, at 2.42pm he was nervously peeking out the window while tidying up the frosting on Sam’s cake and trying not to weigh up his disappointment if Cas didn’t turn up against the potential for awkwardness if he did, something which Dean foolishly hadn’t committed to assessing before he issued the invitation. Namely, the awkwardness around his father about what he’d done with Cas and what he might want to do with Cas. He had deliberately avoided thinking about it in any depth, but it had occurred to him that it might be easier to tell John that he’d been irreversibly bestowed with access to magical, supernatural powers than it would be to spring on him he may be interested in another boy. Though maybe the boy in question would remove himself from the equation and save Dean the trouble.

Hearing the bike before he saw it, Dean’s gut performed some minor acrobatics as he gave the buttercream one more swipe into place, making it to the door just as Castiel was about to knock.

“Am I late? Sorry,” Castiel said with one arm still raised, uncertain, the other clutching a satchel.

“You’re just in time to sing Happy Birthday.”

“Is...is that compulsory?”

“It’s what people do, Cas,” Dean chided, Castiel’s skittishness amusing him and somehow allaying his own.

“Who’s here, Dean?” interrupted John from behind him.

Dean’s pulse leaped as he opened the door wide and gestured for Cas to step inside. “You remember Cas Novak, Dad?”

“Of course,” replied John, friendly over the surprise in his tone. He extended his hand. “Good to meet you under better circumstances.”

“Agreed, Sir.” Dean watched with admiration as Cas’s features rewrote themselves into confident civility, the boy stepping forward into the handshake.

“Thank your Mom for helping out last week. And you, too. I hope Dean didn’t rely on you too much.”

“Not at all. I’m just glad everything turned out. You must have been very worried.”

“We’re focusing on putting it behind us and getting back to normal, aren’t we son,” John answered, resting a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder, long enough for Dean’s conscience to balk.

“Sure, Dad,” he lied, stepping away to close the door. Normal had walked out of that same door several weeks earlier, never to return. “So, uh, come and meet Sam,” he added, gesturing towards the living area where his brother had an array of colored building blocks spread out on the carpet between his thin knees and the several friends whose parents had deemed it safe to attend when it still wasn’t known what Sam had ‘contracted’.

Sam looked up and then between them as they approached. “Sammy, this is Cas,” Dean introduced. Legs coiling, Sam sprang to his feet and then held out a timid hand.

Castiel took it, the two of them eyeing each other silently for a moment. “Good to see you’re on the mend,” Cas remarked.

“Nice to meet you,” Sam replied. The words were by rote, politeness drilled into him from when he was a toddler, but his half-lidded stare was curious.

Slinging the bag off his shoulder, Cas pulled at the latches and removed a wrapped packet. “Happy Birthday,” he said, holding out a gift.

Sam’s eyes widened as he took it and proceeded to remove the paper with painstaking care while Dean sifted through the slanted pang at Cas taking the time to get something for his brother. “Wow, thanks Cas!” Sam exclaimed, flipping the package over to find the opening and proudly pulling out the set of foam bullet guns before showing them off to his friends.

“I hope that’s okay,” Cas murmured to Dean as the boys cooed. “I have no idea what kids are into.”

“You didn’t have to, but it looks like a hit.”

“I have something for you too,” Castiel continued, somewhat furtively. Dean knitted his brows. “Just those Constitution notes you wanted.”

_‘Can we talk?’_

The words rang as clear as a struck bell inside Dean’s head, his jaw hanging long enough for Cas to make his look pointed from under his curling lashes. “Uh, sure. How ‘bout I swap you for those...other ones,” Dean covered ineffectually, gesturing down the hall with a tip of his head.

Cas kept pace with him until they turned right at the end of the hall and slipped into the relative privacy of Dean’s room.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean demanded, careful not to let his strained whisper drift out the door he purposefully left ajar.

 _‘Dean, calm down’_ came Cas’s voice inside his mind again while the blue eyes remained impassive.

“Stop doing that!” Dean implored. 

Castiel swung his satchel to the floor. _‘Why? I wasn’t expecting to enjoy your face this much.’_

_‘CAS!’_

“See, I knew you were a quick study," Castiel observed, mouth quirking briefly.

“Cas!” Dean repeated, aloud this time. “What is this?”

“It seems we’re stuck together, Winchester,” he lamented, pausing to unzip his jacket and remove it with infuriating apathy while Dean’s thoughts clunked like a rusted engine.

“Wait, you said you wouldn’t be able to get in my head,” he accused, thinking back to the night he’d spent at Arcadia.

“And I can’t. Not like I was.”

“So—?”

Castiel’s shoulders slumped inside his slim-fitting plaid shirt. It was still dark, an inky navy, but it was the first collared shirt Dean had seen him wear. “I wasn’t sure, so I had to talk to Meg about it first. And then I wasn’t sure whether to tell you.”

“Novak, if you don’t start making sense—”

“Do you remember in the cafeteria at school the other week,” Castiel interjected, his own patience wearing. “You were talking with Benny and you inferred I could come sit with you.”

Dean thought back. “Um, kinda?”

Cas tapped his own temple with a long forefinger. “I heard that invitation, up here.” Dean surveyed him, still blank. “And I’m fairly sure you heard me reply,” he added solemnly.

Dean did remember now, the way Cas had hurriedly left. “I thought you were pissed at me and I didn’t know why.”

“I...was,” Castiel admitted. “But more so, I was at about where I imagine you are now: violated and confused. I had heard of it happening and always thought it was an old witch's tale. But Meg confirmed it.”

“Confirmed what, exactly?” Dean prompted.

_‘Sometimes during a changeover a bond can form between two of the participants. The kind that allows them to do this.’_

“Talk? That all?”

_‘I don’t know.’_

_‘From, like, anywhere? Or do we have to be looking at each other?’_

Castiel shrugged. _‘I don’t know.’_

_‘Is it permanent?’_

This time it was Cas who erupted, whispering hoarsely, “I don’t know, Dean! There’s not exactly literature on the subject to refer too. Just heresy and vague anecdotes. Believe me, I’ve spent the last week looking.”

“So you have been avoiding me.” Dean put his hands on his head at Castiel’s yielding sigh and spun a slow circle on his heels in an attempt to come to grips with his world listing at an alarming tilt once again. _‘Well, shit,’_ he threw out as he returned to Cas’s expectant face.

 _‘Quite.’_ Expression unsure, Castiel ran a hand through his hair. “I guess we’ll need to experiment to find out the limits. How to turn it on and off, that sort of thing.”

A reluctant grin seeped onto Dean’s lips and he considered Castiel’s penchant for secrets and obfuscation. “You don’t wanna accidentally tell me stuff you don’t want me to hear,” he agreed.

“I’m sure neither of us does,” Castiel snipped. He heaved a sigh and fixed Dean with a beseeching look. “I already felt exposed enough when you recognized me, Winchester. Please be patient with me while I get used to this.”

Softening at Cas’s honesty, Dean nodded reassurance. “I’ll add it to the list of things I have to get used to,” he added wryly, then it occurred to him, "This development might come in real handy for finals!"

Castiel answered with an impressively scathing eye-roll before he bent to his bag and foraged, emerging with a large envelope in his grip. “I actually...um, I did have something for you,” he said, gingerly holding it out.

Dean took it slowly, itching with curiosity. Opening the rumpled flap, he pulled out a sizable black and white photograph. It was of him and Sam, taken at the park they frequented after school, laughing at each other while on one of the spinning pieces of playground equipment. He saw himself, shared delight and affection captured in a thousand shades of grey, his love for Sam imprinted and shining back at him on glossy paper. It was obvious to any observer—which now included himself—and the truth of it socked him in the heart.

“I’m sorry,” Cas winced. “But I...I thought you should have it. It seemed like the right time to—”

“No, it’s...it’s uh, it’s amazing,” Dean stammered, tearing his eyes away from the picture. “Thank you.”

“Anyway,” Castiel began, dismissing the moment and stepping toward the door. “Don’t we have some song to sing?”

“Cas, wait,” Dean said, lunging after his wrist. “I mean it, thank you.” Stepping toe to toe, Dean hung his heavy gaze on Castiel’s until the boy granted him the kiss he’d been wanting to solicit all week, Cas timidly reaching to pluck Dean’s chin downward before pressing his mouth to Dean’s waiting one in a way that told Dean that Cas had wanted to, too. It was soft and sweet and Dean didn’t dare risk more, but Castiel's obvious attempts at meeting him halfway had his uncertainty mutating into something far more urgent and tantalizing.

They skirted the edge of deepening it when Dean formed a remark and threw it recklessly at Cas. _‘This could make that blowjob interesting,’_ he thought loudly and was rewarded with a sharp nip on his bottom lip as Cas broke the kiss off.

“Ow!” he obliged.

 _‘You like it,’_ retorted Castiel, eyes blazing but not with any displeasure. “Yes, it will.” The acknowledgment rippled in the air between them, the excitement of possibility bubbling under Dean’s skin for the first time without the shadows of Sam’s mortality and everything that came with it.

“Think you can come by for dinner, soon?” Castiel continued. _‘Meg wants to properly begin your instruction.’_

 _‘Just Meg?’_ Dean replied, getting used to the double conversation. “I think I can arrange that.”

_‘Naomi wants to see you for other reasons. See us. Together.’_

“What?”

Cas shifted uncomfortably. _‘They’re anxious to work out whether I can be trusted to go away to college or not. I think you’re some kind of litmus test, to see if I can yet prove myself to be a real boy.'_

“College?” Dean was stuck on the word.

“I graduate in a couple of weeks, Dean,” Castiel answered gently.

It was Dean’s turn to feel discomfort, the bubble he’d just let himself begin to explore deflating in on itself like a grape in the sun. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” The future was such an intangible concept: at once obscure, sometimes arcane, tantalizingly hopeful and yet unwanted, its certainty and vulnerability inexorable. He’d always thought he’d wanted out of Lawrence as soon as possible, but if the last few weeks had taught him anything it was that the future could turn on the head of a pin.

Just then, Dean's present burst into the room mid-chase away from one of his friends with a gun, a bright orange bullet passing over his shoulder. “Dean!” Sam shouted, rounding on him and using Dean as a shield to shoot from behind, the boy’s laughter filling up the room as much as the sunshine. Dean hadn’t heard it in weeks.

“Want me to take him out for you?” he proposed, seeing a fair-haired kid poke his forehead around the doorframe.

“Naw, I got this,” replied Sam, diving for the stray bullet and using it to reload and then darted out, reversing the pursuit.

A mixture of resigned and relieved at the interruption, Dean looked back at an oddly disorientated Cas. “Wanna help me with the cake?”

 

Back in the kitchen, he handed Castiel several bags of skittles and ordered him to sort the colors while he used the separated candy to scribe a large ‘8’ on the frosting along with constructing a crude rocket ship in one corner.

“You made this?” Castiel asked incredulously.

“Yep. And that knowledge doesn’t leave this house, okay?”

Cas crossed his arms and leaned watchfully against the counter. “What other talents are you hiding, Winchester?”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that, either silent or aloud. He was too preoccupied deciphering the suggestive glint in Cas’s eyes, aware of his family and guests only a few yards away assembling and waiting for him to place the candles. “Hand me that lighter,” he said, pointing behind Castiel’s left elbow and glowering in lieu of flirting back.

Out in the living room, the chorus of Happy Birthday warbled with their arrival, Sam managing to blow out all his candles on the second attempt. The kid was fading fast, his meager energy burning out after an hour of hyperactivity and Dean considered asking John to hound everyone out once the cake was consumed. The few adults drifted off relatively soon afterward of their own accord, including Missouri who on her way out made sure Dean introduced her to Cas. Dean wasn’t sure if he should be more worried about her pointed looks between himself and Castiel, or of the way Cas had studied her back when they shook hands and tilted his head thoughtfully at her retreating back when she left.

Once Sam’s friend’s had all been collected Dean set about cleaning up, trashing the paper plates smeared with blue frosting and littered with crumbs, and collecting half-drunk tumblers of soda. Garth and John had planted themselves in front of a game on the TV, so he went to find Sam to check on his health, only to locate him in the backyard under the dappled shade of the neighbor’s tree, the knobs of his spine poking through his t-shirt as he sat cross-legged with Cas.

Dean stopped to watch as Castiel made wave-like motions with his wide palms, undulations close to the patchy lawn that had him pausing to peer at what the older boy was mysteriously doing.  Gradually, in the wake of his fingers, Dean saw a pair of birds emerge—Cas’s bluebirds—tiny faces looking around even as their bodies corporealized. Real or illusion, Dean couldn’t tell, but he could see Cas’s lips murmuring as concentration etched itself on his brow under the thatch of dark hair. Then he smiled, his face smoothing as he responded to whatever Sam’s features portrayed.

“Has Dean seen you do this?” he heard Sam ask, wonder expanding his voice and carrying it across the yard.

Cas caught Dean out of the corner of his eye and looked over as he answered. “Something similar, yes. You’re harder to impress, though,” he winked back at Sam.

“He likes you, you know,” Sam said then, Dean’s pinking ears straining to catch the drop in his voice.

“Does he?” Cas replied, feigning amazement. One of the birds hopped onto his extended finger.

He transferred it to Sam’s hand. “Yeah. He told me. He probably doesn't think I heard him, but I did. When I was...I was—”

“It’s okay,” replied Cas, sensing his struggle. “You don’t have to remember anything you don’t want to.” He invited the second bird onto his hand as Dean decided to close in on them. “The important thing is that monsters can’t hurt you ever again and you’re safe now. Dean and I will make sure you always will be.”

Dean sat down to Sam’s right, so they formed a triangle. The grass was long and tickled at his bare ankles. _‘Thank you,’_ he threw out, heaving his heart into the words.

“Dean, look!” said Sam, holding out the bird, an avian prism refracting rays of the sun as they shifted and shone through. An illusion, after all, Dean realized, resolving again to ask Meg how to do that if he couldn’t persuade Cas to share. Unless maybe, it was just Cas’s thing.

“It’s pretty cool. Just remember not to tell anyone, aye Sammy,” he warned.

“I know how to keep a secret,” Sam replied in a tone so derisive that Cas huffed a laugh before his eyes settled wistfully on Dean.

 _‘You know, there is a whole summer ahead. Plus I have the option to accept to KU,’_  offered a coy voice in Dean's head.

“No one would believe me about the wolf trying to eat me either. I won’t tell anyone,” Sam continued. Glancing up at his brother, the small boy leaned to nestle into Dean's side. “But I did good, didn’t I Dean? I hid in the dark and found my way out when you asked me to.”

“Yeah, you did Sammy," Dean replied, throwing his arm over Sam’s shoulder and pulling him tight. "You were perfect."

Sunshine seeping through his shirt and warming his back, Dean hugged his brother and smiled shyly at Castiel, feeling the promise of summer drift on the breeze that carried away the fading, small birds.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final huge and humble thanks to shellz, my tireless beta and cheerleader for keeping me on the right path. I'll forever be grateful <333  
> Shout out to the lovely commenters who kept me motivated to keep going and also on some sort of schedule with posting this. I <3 U.  
> This was a significant departure for me in style and subject, but I have to say I'm a little addicted to writing to plot now and I don't know why I was so worried about it when I began this project.  
> Thanks for reading! Now, back to your regularly scheduled Cockles.


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